


What Counts

by ecrichard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 36,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrichard/pseuds/ecrichard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a brutal attack, John and Sherlock are both injured. John recovers but Sherlock is forever changed. What will Sherlock do when the one thing he could always rely on, his mind, is not longer there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Were you planning on telling me any of this?"

Sherlock was ten feet away and gaining a lead as John struggled to keep up with him.

"Telling you what?" Sherlock asked as John caught up.

"About the case. The one that you dragged my name into without permission."

Sherlock shrugged. "She was single and clearly interested in medicine. I thought that having a potential mate lined up would make her more willing to speak with me. And I was right."

"She was a murderer," John said.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes," he said, "but we caught her, didn't we?"

John had no answer. Holding a grudge against Sherlock Holmes was useless and a losing battle. He would always be wrong no matter what he thought he friend did.

"Coffee?" John said as he pointed up the street.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"My treat. I need a little pick-me-up."

Sherlock looked down at his watch and then up at the street. "For a minute."

"Good enough," John said as they walked towards the shop.

As they crossed in front of the alley separating 2nd Street from 3rd Street, John felt a tug on his jacket and then the sensation of being pulled. It was dark in the alley so it took him a moment to realize that it wasn't Sherlock dragging him. Just as he got his footing, John was pushed up against the brick wall and a hand wrapped around his neck.

"Give me your wallet."

John tried to make out the man's face in front of him but it was shrouded in a mask and the shadows from the walls clouded it even further. He knew better than to fight back when he was unarmed and caught unprepared. The man clearly had a gun and pressed it up towards John's chest as he fumbled for his wallet.

"Now!" the man screamed.

John's hands shook so badly that he had trouble getting the wallet from his pocket. It seemed stuck. The harder he pulled the more it seemed wrapped in the lining.

"It's stuck," John muttered as he yanked even harder.

"Bullshit."

John felt the butt of the gun crash against the side of his head and the pain was immediate. He fell to the ground on his side. From this vantage point he could see Sherlock's shoes illuminated by the thread of light from the alley entrance. His feet danced back and forth desperately. He was being hurt but John couldn't see what was happening.

"Sherlock!" he shouted.

That just made the mugger angrier. He bent down to John's eye level and stuck the gun against his temple.

"Please," John pleaded. "Just take my jacket. It's all in there. "

He pulled off each sleeve and threw the jacket to the side.

There was a sickening thud sound from across the alley and a yelp and a cry that were distinctly Sherlock's. Then another thud.

"Stop!" he said.

John's mugger smiled. "Or what?"

The man lowered the gun towards John's chest.

"Just take it. Please leave us alone."

The man shook his head. "I don't think so."

John wanted to run or fight back but he could hardly move.

There was a shot across the alley and then John could see Sherlock's figure slump to the ground.

"No," he whimpered.

The mugger lifted John's drooping chin with the barrel of his gun. "Well then why don't you join him?"

John didn't have time to react.

There was a shot.

It was so loud. His ears rung and throbbed and the smoke from the bullet swirled all around his head. There were footsteps that ran out from the alleyway and onto the street.

They were gone.

John tried to sit up and that was when the pain hit. They had shot in him the chest. He was losing blood fast. There wouldn't be much time. John went for his phone but it was gone with the rest of his jacket.

"Sherlock?" he croaked.

No answer.

John grabbed the ridges in the brick and forced himself to his knees and then to his feet. Every step felt like a marathon as his body's oxygen quickly depleted and his organs shut down. He griped the brick with white knuckles and took one step at a time until he reached the street.

It was so bright.

So loud.

He stood at the intersection between the alley and the city and stared out at the crowd around him. It all seemed to move in slow motion.

"Please help me," he muttered as he fell to his knees in exhaustion.

A woman looked over for an instant and continued walking. A few moments later she came running back with wide eyes of terror. She threw her shopping bags to the side and kneeled in front of him.

"Darling, what happened?"

"Mugged," he said.

She caressed his cheek. "Let me call an ambulance, alright?"

He pointed back towards the alleyway. "He's hurt, too."

She squinted her eyes but in the darkness. "Okay," she said.

A few more people crowded around the two of them. She pointed towards the alley. "He says that there's someone else back there." There were footsteps that moved past her.

John let his eyes droop closed as he heard the woman on the phone getting help. He let himself fall into her arms and rest against her legs. She laid him on the ground and placed her hands on his chest as she spoke.

It would be okay, he thought. They'll save us.

And then darkness.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up in silence.

For all he knew it was five minutes later or five weeks later. There was no one in the room and he was numb and exhausted the moment he opened his eyes. John wiggled his toes and fingers to make sure he still had mobility.

So far, so good.

He pulled his hand up to where he'd been shot. It was sore but it seemed like it had gone through and bypassed his lungs as the bandaging was minimal. He was lucky.

It was then he remembered that wasn't just him in that alley.

John maneuvered himself to the call button and pressed it over and over again. Within moments a young nurse raced inside.

"You alright, Dr. Watson?"

He nodded. As he tried to speak he realized how hoarse his voice was—that didn't bode well for his length of hospital stay.

"Holmes," he said.

She looked at him with confusion. "No, Dr. Watson, you can't go home yet."

"Sherlock," he said.

Her face fell for a moment and John feared the worst. He couldn't say the words. He couldn't ask the question.

"Is he…"

When she saw that his heart rate increased exponentially the nurse snapped to attention. "No, no!" she said. "He's still here."

John choked back the frightened tear that welled in his throat.

"Can I see him?"

"Let me ask, okay?"

He lay back in the bed as the nurse left. If he was still in hospital then he was alive.

"Dr. Watson?" a male voice said from across the room.

John looked up to see an elderly doctor with large glasses and an overly kind look on his face.

"Yes?" he said.

"How are we feeling today?"

"How long has it been?" he asked.

The doctor came closer and didn't answer. John had used that technique before when he didn't want to answer a question. If he simply didn't acknowledge that the question was asked then he didn't have to answer it, especially if it would only serve to agitate the patient.

"Let's check you out first," he said.

John wasn't in the mood for bedside manner and chitchat. He wanted answer. "No," he said. "How long have I been here?"

The doctor looked over at the nurse. It was the signal to get a sedative ready because this patient is angry. John forced himself to calm his tone or he'd be unconscious and without answers.

"I'm sorry," he said in a mannered voice. "I'm just wondering."

The doctor sighed. "Three days."

John forced a neutral expression across his face but inside he was panicked. A gunshot wound should not have kept him unconscious that long. There was something else wrong.

"I see," he said, "and what is the prognosis?"

Some doctors were more than happy to shop talk while others found the presence of another physician threatening. This appeared to be the latter kind. "We'll talk about that later when you're more rested, alright?"

John knew that he could look at his records later as they often just sat unguarded at the foot of the bed. That wasn't his worry. "Sherlock," he said. "How is he?"

The doctor looked over to the nurse again with the  _sedative_  look. That alone made John more anxious. How bad could it be?

"This isn't a good time to talk about. Let's let you get stable and we can have a chat about your friend."

John couldn't hold back the frustration any longer. Sedative or not, he wanted answer. "No," he said. "That's not good enough. I can handle it. Just tell me what is going on."

"You're in no condition to take in distressin-"

John couldn't take it any more. The tears had taken hold and he started to hyperventilate. "I just need to know something. Please."

The doctor had a choice. John knew that he could either just lay it all out in the hopes that it would calm down his patient or knock him out. Thankfully the doctor held his nurse back and pulled up a chair to the side of the bed.

"I'm not going to get into every nuance. You're not aware enough to process it."

"That's fine," he said. "Just whatever you want."

The doctor sighed. "He suffered a massive head injury from being hit against the wall. There was bleeding in the brain when he was brought in along with a gunshot wound to the leg. He was in surgery that night and he's been in an induced coma since then until the swelling goes down."

John took it in knowing that what he said was dire. It was a miracle that Sherlock had survived.

"Brain damage?" he asked.

"Hard to say. We'll know more when he wakes up."

The doctor began to stand up. "Why was I out for three days?" John asked.

"John…"

"Just tell me. It'll bother me more if I don't know."

He sighed once more. "You coded on the table during surgery. There was a lot of blood loss. John…just rest."

"Jesus," he said.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "It's a miracle you both are still here."


	3. Chapter 3

He had to be well behaved and in good health for the next twenty-four hours before the doctors would let him see Sherlock. It took a monstrous effort not to correct the inexperienced nurses on their abilities to find a vein or argue with his doctor on the right regimen of medications he was being given. He was the model patient and sat with perfect blood tests and a smile the entire day.

It was after dinner when they allowed him to be wheeled over to Sherlock's room for a few minutes. A small flotilla of IV's trailed behind him as a nurse took him to Sherlock's room.

The room was filled with flowers and cards that John could see were courtesy of the citizens of London when they found out that their intrepid detective was fighting for his life. John felt a little hurt that he'd only gotten a card from his sister and not a flower in sight but that tinge of jealousy was quickly snatched away by grief.

Sherlock was propped up against a pile of pillows with a breathing tube taped to his mouth. His coloring was paler than John would have liked but he wasn't about to argue about the nutrients they were feeding him. He was here to visit, not to consult.

"Can you bring me a bit closer," he said.

John noticed a chair that was pulled out a few inches from the wall. A suit jacket was draped across its arms. It didn't take him long to recognize it. Mycroft had been here.

"Was his brother here?" John asked.

The nurse rolled her eyes and sighed. "Oh yes."

For the first time since he'd woken up John laughed. That was the only reaction to have towards Mycroft.

"Is he still around?"

"Getting lunch or a meeting. Not sure which. He said he'd be back," she said with a large helping of disappointment in her voice.

The nurse pulled him flush against the bed and John reached out for Sherlock's hand. He sandwiched it in between his own and squeezed. "I'm sorry."

In his mind he heard the usual Sherlock tirade about how he should not be sorry and he should go out and find the men who did this. John waited for the hand to squeeze back and Sherlock's eyes to open up. He wanted to speak to him so badly but no matter how hard he wished it, his friend stayed asleep.

"We should go," the nurse said quietly.

He didn't want to leave. Without Sherlock he was alone. He didn't want to spend another second in that room by himself.

"Dr. Watson, please. You need your rest."

She took his hands in her own and pulled them back until he lost Sherlock's grip entirely.

"You can visit him again later," she said.

The nurse spun him around in the chair and wheeled him out of the room slowly, for his sake. John bit his tongue hard to keep from crying.

When the news broke that John had woken up a stream of reporters that wanted his side of the story greeted him. At first he was excited for the attention and the novelty of the situation but after the third reporter he grew tired of the same questions and the same raw emotions that describing the mugging made him feel each time he told it. By the fifth retelling of the moment he was shot, John could no longer relive the feelings anymore. He was exhausted and stopped speaking mid-sentence and fell back into his pillow without saying another word. The reporter was particularly insistent and kept goading him with more questions.

Thankfully a familiar face strolled in just as the reporter began to hover over him.

"Eh," Lestrade said, "leave him alone."

The reporter took a step back as Lestrade came in closer. "I need an interview."

"Not now," he said.

The reporter scowled and walked out of the room without any more argument.

"I've never been so happy to see you," John said.

"Who's letting those vultures in your room?"

John shrugged. "Nurses. I don't know. I'm not really in the mood to talk to them right now."

"I bet. I'll get a guy outside your room to keep them off, alright?"

"That'd be wonderful," John said.

Lestrade nervously walked across the front of the room making a conscious effort not to get close to John. "We found the muggers," he said.

A wave of relief washed over John. "You did?"

"Well we think we did. They had wounds on their hands that matched the injuries that you two had. And they don't have an alibi. But we're going to need you to ID them. And Sherlock too, when he's up for it."

"I didn't really see them," he said. "It was so dark."

"We're very sure about these two. They're detained for now. Can you just look at some pictures and see if you ID anything from them?"

"I'll try."

He pulled out a small stack of papers from his bag, handed them to John and backed away again.

John laid out the pictures and forced his mind back to the fight. He didn't see a lot but he did see the man's eyes. They were deep set and fierce. Once he had a picture in his mind he looked at the men in front of him.

Immediately he recognized his attacker. It was like a punch to the gut to see him again.

"Him," John said as he pointed to a muscular bald man with steely eyes.

Lestrade smiled. "Wonderful. Thank you, John."

"Was that him? Was that the guy you had?"

"Yes. Theodore Tressel. Drug dealer and domestic abuser. We've never been able to stick him with anything but now we've got him."

"Glad to help."

Lestrade pointed towards the hallway. "How is Sherlock?"

"Didn't they tell you?"

He looked down sheepishly. John finally realized how fundamentally uncomfortable Lestrade was in the hospital. The anxiety was written all over his face. It was a miracle he'd stayed this long. "No," he said. "They didn't."

"He had a head injury. His doctor said they were going to wake him up in the next day or two."

"That's wonderful," Lestrade said.

"They're being cautious," John said. "They don't know the damage the injury caused." He said it matter-of-factly but inside he panicked. There was no telling what state Sherlock would be in when he awoke. He could be back to normal in a week's time or severely impaired. It was all a waiting game and John couldn't control his impatience.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Hudson came by and chose to stick around much to John's annoyance. She meandered between being helpful and bringing books and sweaters from the flat and sitting in John's room with tears in her eyes. After a few hours of her whimpering he insisted that she go back home. He could only take so much of her "helpfulness".

He was finally allowed to get up and walk around as he wished. The first thing he did was put on his slippers and walk to Sherlock's room. It was only a matter of time before he woke up and he wanted to be there when he opened his eyes.

The moment he stepped in the room, he heard the familiar gravely tones of the other Holmes. Mycroft stood against the wall with his phone pressed tight against his ear and his brows furrowed.

John desperately didn't want to speak to Mycroft. Even though the mugging was not his fault and Sherlock's injuries had nothing to do with him, he felt like Mycroft would find a way to spin the story to put the blame on him. But he didn't care. He needed to be around a friendly face whether Mycroft was there or not.

John shuffled inside and grabbed a chair. Even though he was on the mend, his energy level was still low and just the walk down the hall had taxed his system like a jog in the park used to do. Mycroft didn't even look up as John settled into his seat.

"…call me when you get here."

Mycroft hung up the phone and turned his head slowly like an inquisitive owl.

"John…you're here."

Mycroft defied explanation and John didn't bother deciphering his implications.

"They said I could walk around. I wanted to check in."

"I was on the phone with the specialist. He's coming in from New York. Got him on a flight last night. Car's bringing him over in the next hour."

"What's he going to do?" John asked.

"They're going to wake him and do tests."

John gulped. He was terrified of who Sherlock would be when they woke him up. Even though he'd run through even scenario in the confines of his bed he wasn't ready for the reality.

"Have they told you anything?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded. "They say it looks good. There doesn't appear to be any major damage that they can see thus far but I still wanted the best. You understand."

"Of course," John said.

Mycroft bowed his head. "I'm hoping he can go back to Baker Street after all of this. Is that all right?"

"Yes," John said, "absolutely." He had never imagined a scenario where it wouldn't all return to normal after they were both released.

"Father wanted to come," Mycroft said, "but he couldn't. You know how it is." Of all the people in the world, John was the person that needed the fewest excuses for why a family would ignore even the direst of emergencies. His own family had all but overlooked his extended hospital stay except for the Get Well card his sister had sent through the mail while on her vacation in Hong Kong.

"I understand," John said. "At least you're here."

Mycroft almost smile, almost. "Did you want to wait? The doctor should be here shortly."

Throughout their tumultuous relationship John had always felt that Mycroft disrespected his because he didn't have that unquantifiable factor that made the Holmes boys special. He figured that, to Mycroft, he was just a tagalong that mooched off his little brother.

"Are you sure I won't be a bother?"

"I don't imagine so. I think it might be good for Sherlock to see a friendly face." A bittersweet smile crossed his face as Mycroft's eyes drooped and lowered towards his brother's lifeless body on the bed beside him.

* * *

Two hours later and Sherlock was given the medications to spark his consciousness out of the induced coma. The American doctor that Mycroft had flown in and his trusted nurse stood beside the bed and monitored every minute action of their patient from blood pressure to the smallest muscle movements. John just watched in dazed awe at the production behind it all.

The drugs didn't work right away and John knew that they wouldn't. His medical knowledge dampened many of his idealistic hopes that Sherlock would jump from his bed and run out to the flat within seconds. He knew that even under the best scenarios it wouldn't be a miraculous recovery. It would be hard work.

From his vantage point John could see bits of his friend's body in between the gaps that the doctor and nurse left as they moved. He tried to monitor from his end but it was a frustrating and thankless activity. John forced himself to sit back and wait.

Suddenly there was a stronger beep on the heart monitor that woke John from his stupor. Something was different.

He looked over at the doctor who had moved from Sherlock's feet to his head. He had a notebook in hand and a light in the other. John shifted his head to look towards his friend's face.

He was awake.


	5. Chapter 5

It took hours for the doctor to leave. Mycroft left with him and, finally, the two of them were alone. John moved his chair over beside Sherlock's bed and let out an exhausted sigh.

The doctor seemed hopeful from his initial tests. Even though he was still groggy and out of it due to the medications he could speak and understand what was being said to him and he was able to respond to commands, which was promising on every level.

"Lestrade came by. Brought you flowers I believe."

Sherlock smiled. It was weary and worn but it seemed genuine.

"Mycroft said that you could come back to the flat after you're released. You're alright with that?"

He nodded. "I would like that."

His words were stilted and his voice hoarse from the intubation but it was the same Sherlock he'd been missing all those days. It was wonderful to hear his voice again.

"Before you know it, you'll be back on cases. Lestrade said as soon as you're up for it you can ring him and he'll get you on something. The blog's been lighting up. We got 200 comments in the guestbook. People were very kind."

"Blog?" he asked.

John swallowed his panic at Sherlock's lapse in memory. "You know. The one that I've been keeping a log of the cases."

He nodded. "Of course."

It was clear he wasn't sure what John was talking about. He wrote it off as side effects from the medication. There was plenty of time to remember the massive amount of information he locked away in his brain. It would be unreasonable to expect him to recall tomes of knowledge after all he'd been through.

"But there's no rush, you know. No one's expecting you to do anything before you're ready." He felt silly lobbing platitudes but there was panic and confusion in Sherlock's face that he hadn't seen before. It was as if a veil had been lifted his raw inner-workings were exposed. The emotions that he had spent a lifetime hiding and holding back were bubbling to the surface. It was clear that Sherlock was terrified but he didn't have the vocabulary to express it.

"Thank you," he said as he reached his tethered arm out for the glass of water on the table. He was inches away from it and John had to decide what kind of friend he would be. Normal Sherlock wouldn't allow the help but was this normal Sherlock. He put it to the test. John sat up and grabbed the water and placed it in Sherlock's hand.

He drank it and then stuck the glass back out for John to put back.

On one hand he was acting like a normal person, on the other hand he wasn't acting like himself.

"Would you like them to bring you something from the flat? Mrs. Hudson is here so often, I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

Sherlock blinked a few times and he contorted his face as if he was thinking. But there was a blankness to his stare. "Like what?" he asked.

"Books. Your notebooks. Your skull. I don't know," John said with a smile.

"Skull?" Sherlock asked.

John shook away returning wave of dread and moved on. "Nothing. Just a joke."

Sherlock laughed accordingly. "I see. Books would nice."

He didn't bother to ask any more questions. The man that sat in front of him had large gapping holes in his memory and any further prodding would only send him into panic. John knew to tread gingerly as Sherlock got back to full speed.

"I'll see what I can do. You want to watch some tellie?"

Sherlock nodded.

John grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. He landed on a documentary about the solar system and left it on and hoped that Sherlock would see the humor. Instead there was just a polite smile.

"Here," John said as he handed the remote over. "You can find something."

His heart hurt to see Sherlock this way. It wasn't that he was gone but there was a core to him that was missing. He was terrified to think of how Sherlock would feel when he remembered what he used to be like and be unable to replicate it.

"I have to go," John said.

Sherlock looked over with wide eyes. "Now?"

John bit his tongue to keep from crying. "Sorry. I have to have some tests done. I have to go back."

"Okay," Sherlock said quietly and then went back to channel flipping. "Come back."

* * *

He walked down the hall with his head bowed. John didn't want to see anyone or talk to another soul. His entire life had changed. The person he had known and entrenched himself in was missing. He didn't even mourn for himself. His life with Sherlock was less about the adventure and more about the companionship. He didn't need the hassle as much as Sherlock did.

He mourned for his friend. Sherlock had sacrificed everything to cultivate a life where he was the best at what he did. All he'd ever done was to better himself and sharpen his skills and now those skills were clouded and lost. What if they never returned? What would he do?

John couldn't imagine a world where Sherlock wasn't the smartest man in the room. What else did he have if not that?

 


	6. Chapter 6

Once he was awake and alert there was little that the doctors could do to keep him in the hospital. John was released two days before Sherlock and spent the time making sure the flat looked just the way they left it. He didn't bother putting away any experiments or notes that were left out because the more information that Sherlock could absorb the better.

Sherlock insisted that no one be there when he was released besides John. No Lestrade, no Mrs. Hudson, no press, nothing.

John stood out at the sidewalk with a taxi hailed and the back door open for when the wheelchair came through the sliding doors. He had been talking to Sherlock every day and John still wasn't sure how the next few weeks were going to play out.

He paced the sidewalk and waited and waited. They said it would be any minute. What was taking so long?

John took a deep breath and tried to think of what to do next. What would their life be? Could they survive this? He felt his mind race in a thousand directions as the doors to the exit opened up and a serene Sherlock rolled out.

"Here we go," chirped the nurse.

Sherlock looked up at her and smiled. He'd done a lot that lately, smiling, it while it was a pleasant change of pace it worried John to no end. It seemed to substitute the litany of words that used to accompany most interactions whether warranted or not.

John took over from the nurse and bent down to Sherlock's eye level. "You ready to go?"

Sherlock nodded and hoisted himself up from the chair. He made the journey from the sidewalk to the taxi unassisted and fell into the seat in relief.

"Thank you for everything," John said to the nurse before he left. He was scared to get inside of the car. It meant the next chapter was beginning. But it needed to happen and he shook her hand and got in.

"I set up your room," John said.

"Set up?" Sherlock asked.

"I mean I cleaned it up. There were things on the floor—I put them in your closet in case you wondered where they were."

"I see."

The majority of the ride was silence. Sherlock had nothing to add, which wasn't unusual but still felt uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson, in a compromise to not being at the hospital, was going to greet them in front of the flat. Sherlock hadn't seen her since the accident as she hadn't gotten up the courage to see him at the hospital. He only hoped that she would tone down her enthusiasm so they could get upstairs in peace.

As they approached the flat he realized that he was terribly wrong.

Not only was Mrs. Hudson there but she was accompanied by Lestrade and a bouquet of balloons that she gripped in her hand. The pair of them stood silently and stoically as the car pulled up.

"Shit," John muttered.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"They're out there. Let me call Lestrade and tell them to leave. I didn't think they'd be—"

Sherlock put up his hand. "It's okay."

John put his phone to his lap. "It's okay?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's okay. Won't be long, right?

"Well…I suppose."

The politeness was disarming. He felt betrayed by Sherlock's appearance of etiquette. He was unable to tell whether it was a put-on or genuine and either option was concerning.

"Let's just say hello and move upstairs, yes?"

"Okay," John said, "if that's what you want."

"It is."

John sat up and told the driver to stop.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson gripped Sherlock and held him tight against her for almost a minute and he didn't pull away. John looked on in confusion and Lestrade joined in.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked.

John bowed his head. "I really don't know."

"He's acting, well, he's acting normal."

"Exactly."

Lestrade smiled. "Maybe something clicked. Maybe he'll be pleasant."

John forced himself to smile back. "Maybe. We'll see, I suppose."

Lestrade patted John on the back. "Call me if you need anything. I'm around."

"Of course."

Sherlock pulled away from the weeping Mrs. Hudson and stuck out his hand for Lestrade to shake. "Thank you for coming."

Lestrade looked at John as if a trained dog had come over to shake his hand. For the sake of novelty he shook back. "Absolutely. Least I could do."

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked John as he gestured towards the flat.

* * *

Sherlock went straight inside and walked in with confidence. It was wonderful seeing the missing piece back in its place. John set the bits of luggage down against the wall and stood beside his flatmate.

"How does it feel to be back?" he asked.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and he smiled. "Perfect," he said.

"Perfect?" John asked.

Sherlock cocked his eyes over to the side. "It's good to be back."

John smiled. Perfect. The flat was merely a place to work. He watched as Sherlock walked the perimeter and looked carefully at each item to regain his footing in his own home.

"I left your experiment out. The one you were working on before," John said.

Sherlock was over at the mantel and looking at the skull that sat there. His head was bent to the side and he peered inside the eye sockets with bemusement.

"That's yours," John said.

Sherlock tapped the top of the head lightly and smiled. "Of course," he said.

John grew worried as the trip around the flat seemed to be filled with a new array of items that Sherlock seemed to have little memory of possessing. He stood at the two sets of doors that separated the bedroom. John waited and waited for him to pick the right way.

He did.

John breathed a sigh of relief and fell onto the couch. It was the little things. It was the little things that counted.

"John?"

He sat up.

"John," Sherlock shouted. "Can you come here?"


	7. Chapter 7

John ran into the room and Sherlock stood in the middle and gestured around with delight. "It looks very nice but where is my album?"

He'd spent hours in Sherlock's room, mostly to clean but partially to snoop and he hadn't seen anything resembling an album. "An album? What do you mean?"

"Photo album. It must be here."

"You don't have a photo album. I thought you said they were ridiculous wastes of time."

Sherlock popped his head up, flabbergasted. "I did not."

"You did. Mrs. Hudson made an album of the Christmas party and you practically threw it in the trash."

"Well, I had one and it was in my drawers before and now it isn't."

John shrugged. "I don't know. I'll look around for it. How about you just settle in and I'll make some tea?"

"We should call…" Sherlock spun around and there was a curious look of desperation on his face that John had hardly ever seen. He stood with his lips parted and the name on the tip of his tongue.

He pleaded with John to stop this.

It was the aphasia that he was worried about. The speech. His frontal lobe had been compromised and the speech centers weren't as intact as John had hoped. The words. They weren't there.

"Mycroft?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Mycroft. Call him. He may know."

"Mycroft. Sure," John said with a smile.

He'd hurt Sherlock who stood, perplexed. Mycroft was probably the wrong answer to the riddle but Sherlock had just taken the first suggestion.

"I should call them," Sherlock said.

"Who? Who are you calling?"

He pulled a business card out of his pocket.

Lestrade's business card.

"Oh no," John said. "It's too soon."

"Too soon?"

"Yes," John said. "You're still recovering. Your brain is healing. You shouldn't do anything harder than watching tellie and sleeping. It is not time to work. Not for a while."

"John, I need to work."

It pained him to hear Sherlock speak like this—there was such fear in his voice. "It's not a good idea."

"I need to work."

He felt backed against the wall. There was no right answer to this. Allow him to work and let him fail or hold him back and let him suffer.

"I'm coming with you."

Sherlock nodded.

"And I get to take you out if it's too much."

Another nod.

"You will listen to me. No arguing."

A final nod.

He had anticipated an argument. John didn't know what to do with such a smooth compromise. He stood back in suspicion. "Alright," he said. "Let me call Lestrade."

"No," Sherlock said. "I want to do it."

John stepped back to give him space. "Sure. But you tell me what the case is. I still get final decision."

Nod.

John shut the door and held his breath in fear. He hoped that he'd made the right decision. He hoped he wouldn't live to regret this.

* * *

The case that Lestrade lobbed their way was low-impact. It was a home invasion with no injuries, just items stolen. There was already a suspect but they didn't have anything to hold on him beside suspicion. They wanted a motive or just a shred of evidence to tie him to the case.

It was a nice home but nothing too flashy. Already there were two police vehicles in front and Lestrade standing at the end of the driveway with his arms crossed.

Sherlock hadn't spoken much since they'd gotten the case. He spent the ride to the home looking out the window as the streets raced by.

"Ready?" John asked as the cab pulled up to the house.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Let's go."

There wasn't the razor edges of condescension in his voice. He sounded nervous. For the first time in his life, Sherlock sounded nervous about a case. John immediately regretted doing this. This was a set-up for both of them.

Before Sherlock had a chance to reach the door handle, John grabbed his arm. "Maybe we don't."

"Excuse me?"

"This is a bad idea."

Sherlock smiled. "It's not. This is good. It's a good thing."

And with that, he left the car and walked straight to Lestrade. There was a handshake, smiles, and cordiality. John couldn't stand it. Everything about this felt wrong. He jumped out of the car and ran behind Sherlock.

The house was normal, aggressively so. There was a cream couch, a flat screen TV, and pictures of smiling children in silver frames. The items stolen were jewelry and money that were found in the living room drawers as well as a laptop that was kept near the front door.

Lestrade quickly briefed them on the case and Sherlock listened intently. Normally he was across the room by the time Lestrade's mouth was opened. It should have been John's first clue.

He didn't follow behind Sherlock. Instead John did his own surveillance. Surely there was something here and whatever he could do to make this process go quicker, the better.

Sherlock walked the perimeter of the room with his head bent towards the ground. He took small steps and seemed to survey each inch of the room. That wasn't his style.

John kept looking.

Lestrade said that they man they picked up had been a plumber for the house the week before. When John got to the children's room in the side of the house he saw it. The smoking gun. There was a set of footprints on the ledge of the window. They were faint but the bootprint immortalized in dried mud at the edge of the sill would surely help. He'd probably scoped house and saw where the unlocked windows were and just waited the family out.

John wanted Sherlock to figure it out but at the pace he was going, it would take a week before he made it all the way to the children's room across the house.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"Yes?"

"I have an idea. Can you come here?"

John's ideas were usually more than worthless. A John idea was often paramount to the imaginings of a small child in Sherlock's eyes were hardly worth the breath it took to say them. But there he was…Sherlock was already in the children's room with a hopeful look in his eyes.

"What is it? I was looking in the living room."

"Have you found anything?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

Old Sherlock would have had something by now. The plumber's eyebrows would show he has Tourette's syndrome and they'd be able to arrest him for that. Something would have been revealed and now John, good ol' John, was their best chance for a win.

"I have a feeling there's something in here."

"You do?"

John nodded. "Lestrade said something about this room. I think we should check it out."

Sherlock patted John on the arm and began to walk his perimeter again. Step by step like a thoughtful snail. John sat back and waited for the discovery. Any minute now.

"I don't…" Sherlock began to say as he completed his lap. He walked over to the girl's bed and looked under the pillows and around her dolls and stuffed animals.

"You don't?"

"Should I?" Sherlock said. "Is there something here?"

John shook his head.

"John. Why can't I do this?"

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock pointed to the room. "This used to be easy. The answers used to scream out at me. And now…there's silence."

"Sherlock…"

"No. Don't."

John sighed. "It will come back."

Sherlock looked up with pain in his eyes. "What if it doesn't?"


	8. Chapter 8

John didn't know what to say. He wanted to promise that everything would go back to normal and Sherlock had nothing to worry about. Instead he went against his gut. He pointed towards the window.

"Look over there," he said. "Tell me if you see anything."

Sherlock shook his head. "This was a mistake."

John was already at the window will. "Just look. Tell me what you see."

Sherlock began to walk away. "We should go."

"Sherlock!" John shouted.

It was too late. Sherlock was leaving and he couldn't stop him.

John ran through the length of the house.

"John?" Lestrade asked as John passed him. "Did he find anything?"

"Yeah," John said. "Footprint on the sill in the girl's room."

"Excellent," Lestrade said. "Glad to have him back, eh?" He patted John on the arm and went to back to his men with the news.

John waited a beat and made sure that no one noticed what was happening in their little sphere. He just wanted to get Sherlock out and home without any more damage being done.

Sherlock stood alone on the lawn with his head bowed and his hands jutted into his pockets.

"You can't just run off like that," John said.

Sherlock spun so his back was to John.

"Hey. You cannot start phasing me out. I'm trying to help you."

John put his hand on Sherlock's arm but he pulled away from the touch.

"Fine," John said as he went to the street to hail a taxi. He wanted to be angry and justified for that anger.

They got home and John realized that hadn't spoken in nearly an hour.

"Did you want to get some dinner? I can pick something up," John said.

Sherlock had fallen in his chair and turned on the television.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

He was used to being ignored for more valiant pursuits that petty anger. John wasn't going to let this precedent continue. He walked over to Sherlock's chair and snatched the remote from his hand.

No reaction.

"You will answer me."

His face flicked up for a brief instant of eye contact and John could see the hopelessness in his face. But it wasn't right to let his friend linger in the dark places. It was his job to push him out.

"I'm not hungry."

John steadied himself. "You need to eat."

"I said I'm not hungry."

"I'm not doing this," John said.

Sherlock fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket in an elaborate to appear occupied. "Not doing what?"

"You are not going to wallow with me."

"Wallow?" Sherlock said.

"Yes. Wallow. I did that for months after I came back and it was useless."

"I don't need your approval," Sherlock said. "I will do what I wish. Please, leave me alone."

John couldn't hold back. The words burst through without his control. "I will not. You are not going to give up already. Who cares that you can't solve a case?"

"I care," Sherlock said.

"I know," John said, exasperated, "but you can't just yet. Give it time."

"Just go," Sherlock said.

"It'll come back. You'll be you again."

Sherlock spun his head and there was hatred in his eyes. "Go."

He brought back rice and chicken for Sherlock but it sat in the kitchen uneaten. Sherlock didn't move from his chair the entire night. John went back and forth across the flat in the hopes that it would spark a conversation and things would return to normal. But all he did was stare at the television and down at his phone. It was passive and unresponsive. He'd given up and John didn't know what to do.

"Are you going to bed?" he finally asked as midnight rolled around.

Sherlock shrugged.

"You should get some rest."

"What for?" Sherlock said.

John sighed. "You are still recovering. You need to allow your brain to heal. It's been through trauma."

"I'm fine out here."

John stood next to the television with his arms crossed. "I'm not leaving."

Sherlock turned his head away. "John…go to bed."

"And what will you do?"

He shrugged.

"Please don't make me do this," John said.

"Do what?"

"Make me treat you like—"

Sherlock looked over. "Like what?"

He wanted to say 'like a child' but he thought better of it. John bit his tongue. "Nothing," he said.

There was nothing more to do. John wanted to chastise him and tell him that his behavior was juvenile and immature. He wanted to shake Sherlock and tell him that he should be thankful for every second that he was alive because it was a miracle that he had survived the attack at all much less was able to speak and move as well as he could at this point.

But he didn't have a leg to stand on. He'd spent months in this pit of despair and there wasn't a soul that could tell him that he should just turn it off and be his old self again. There wasn't enough therapy in the world that would convince him that his pain wasn't worth the bleakness he felt about his future.

It was only time that got him through it. That and someone around who didn't dwell on the despair and instead catered to his strengths and not his weaknesses.

He needed to be patient.

He needed to wait.

As hard as it would be, he needed to wait.


	9. Chapter 9

A week.

He waited a week.

The two of them hardly spoke for a week before John couldn't take it anymore. Everyday he would leave for work with Sherlock in the chair with his eyes staring blankly at the television. He would return to a figure who had appeared to not have moved an inch in ten hours. Sherlock wasn't eating, hardly sleeping and unwilling to do anything but check out.

The experiments that John had preserved in the kitchen still sat on the counter, ready to be picked up and finished. John marched up next to them.

"I'm going to toss these," he said.

No answer.

"Did you hear me?"

Sherlock laid his head against the back of the chair.

"Is that okay with you."

"Do whatever you want," Sherlock said.

He'd been patient. He'd held his tongue and let Sherlock wallow in a sea of self-pity but he couldn't do it anymore. He grabbed a beaker and smashed it on the floor. It shattered in a hundred pieces and scattered across the room.

"I'll keep doing it," he said as he grabbed another beaker.

Sherlock didn't move.

John grabbed another beaker and threw it with more of an arc. The pieces flitted into the living room but still no acknowledgement of what was happening.

"Get up," John said as he marched towards Sherlock.

"Leave me alone," he said.

John grabbed him by the arm and pulled him forward. "You are not doing this."

Sherlock pushed away from John's grip but he was weak and exhausted. "Let me go."

"This is a dangerous road you're going down, you know? I did it. It's not pretty."

"Just go," Sherlock said.

John let his grip loosen and he could see the pink indentations that his fingers had left on Sherlock's skin. "Let me help you. You can get back to where you were."

"No," he said. "I can't."

"Yes you can."

Sherlock shook his head. "I tried to call Lestrade," he said quietly.

"You did?" John said with surprise.

"I couldn't…think of the words," he said in halting speech.

"That's normal," John said. "It may be temporary."

"No," he said. "It's over, John."

* * *

A bottle of wine later and John was on the phone with the hospital. If Sherlock couldn't help himself then he would need to go behind his back and implement so drastic measures. After calling in all of his favors, he was able to get an appointment with the best speech therapist in the city for the next morning.

Tracy Goodman was to come around the flat at nine the next day. He gulped down the anticipation of how Sherlock would react to a stranger coming to help him. As the wine wore down his defenses, John placed his head on the pillow and felt proud of himself. He'd done for Sherlock what Sherlock had done for him. He had found a way to snap him out of his tailspin.

It would work.

It would have to.

* * *

He woke to shouting from the living room. John peered at the clock next to his bed.

9:15.

Shit.

He threw on a pair of jeans and raised out to where the commotion was centered. Sherlock was standing against the windows as Dr. Goodman stood at the door.

"I don't need your help," he shouted again.

John walked into the living room and in between the two of them. "Sherlock, I should have to you. But Dr. Goodman is the best. She can help you."

The betrayal was written all over his face. John had never done anything like this before. He had never subverted Sherlock's wishes and there was precedent for this in their relationship. "I don't need her," he said.

John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, which was briskly jerked away. "You do. It'll get you back to what you used to be."

"I told you to leave me alone."

"I know, but—"

Sherlock stepped forward and their shoulders collided which shook John off his footing and nearly caused him to crash into the chairs. Sherlock strode towards the doctor and looked her dead in the eyes. "I don't need you," he said. "Go away."

And he was gone.

John stood in disbelief. It couldn't have gone worse if he had planned it that way. "I'm so sorry," John said.

She smiled. "It's okay."

He'd known of Tracy since medical school. She was a year younger than him but she was an overachiever and was in the library from dawn to dusk. He'd always sit near to hear and watch her bite the end of her hair in frustration or chug six cups of coffee just to finish a reading. She hadn't changed much since then. Still the effervescent sweetness that burst through even the face of impossibility.

"No, it's not. He shouldn't talk to you that way."

"I've heard worse. This is a tough time. I can understand that he's upset."

John slumped into the chair with the air of a hangover looming on the horizon. "I thought this would help."

She joined him in the adjacent chair. "He's a stubborn one I imagine."

John laughed. "Stubborn doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Then give him time," she said.

"He lost what made him who he was," John said.

Tracy nodded. "I can see that in him. He's very frustrated."

"I don't know what to do with him," John said.

Tracy tapped her foot against the floor. It brought him right back to the library where her pink sneaker would pitter pat against the carpet as he studied chemistry.

"I'll come back. I'll keep coming back, okay?"

"I don't know if-"

"I'm stubborn too," she said. "I'm not going to let him get away. I want to work with him. I've read all about him—he's fascinating."

She'd read his blog. He couldn't help but smile. "He's a pain but he's brilliant."

Tracy got up and patted him on the arm. "I'll do what I can. But just be supportive. He needs a friend right now."

John wanted to give up and give in but he knew that he couldn't. Tracy was right. No matter what, he had to be there. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat.

He had to find Sherlock.

He had to make this right.


	10. Chapter 10

John didn't know where to start. Sherlock never left the flat without a purpose. He wasn't one to go on a free-for-all at a favorite haunt. In the hazy morning light he walked down the street with his eyes scanning each passing person.

He dialed Sherlock's mobile more times than he could count but nothing. No answer, not that he expected one.

It was for his own good.

He needed help.

The only person that would do that for him was John.

Sherlock's strength was still recovering and he would only be able to make it so far. John made it to the end of the block and spun around to the coffee shop. The same one they had gone the week before the attack. Sherlock never ordered a thing but would just sit with his eyes peering out at the people passing by on the street. He'd entertain John with retellings of a man who'd recently had an affair or a woman who was on her way to an important meeting. They would tales woven and spun with details and tiny factoids that no one, even the person he was describing, would have picked up on. It was his favorite part of the week.

And there he was. Sherlock was against the window with his wide gazing eyes looking out to the street. He had a cup in front of him that sat untouched.

A part of him wanted to respect Sherlock's wishes and leave well enough alone but he remembered the day that he'd met Stamford in the park. If he'd just walked on and forced himself into further solitude nothing would have changed—he needed that push.

John walked inside and made his way to their usual table. Sherlock didn't react, not at first.

He took a seat and just sat.

They stared out the window, together, like they always did.

Sherlock turned his head just slightly. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright."

He went back to staring out the window. "You should have told me."

"I know. I thought you'd say no."

"True," he said, "but you should have told me."

John bowed his head. "Sorry."

Sherlock pushed the cup of coffee towards John.

"Oh no," John said.

"It's for you. I ordered it for you."

John smiled. "How did you know I'd come?"

"You always come," Sherlock said.

* * *

They walked back in silence. The streets bustled with people on their lunch hour rushing to grab food before they needed to get back to work. Men in business suits and women in heels bolted past the slow moving pair.

"Molly called," Sherlock said.

"Molly?"

He nodded. "While I was at the café. She wanted help in the lab."

"Is that right? What do you think?"

He shrugged. "Don't know what I would do in there."

John shook his head. "Your memories—they're still there. Maybe being around some of it all again will bring them forward. Accelerate the healing."

"I don't know…"

"You should go. It'll be good for you."

* * *

He felt like an overprotective father sending his son off to his first day of school as he dropped Sherlock off at St. Bart's. Sherlock was nervously as he got ready, asking John a number of questions to make sure that he didn't say anything wrong to Molly, which was suddenly a priority. John reassured him that there was nothing he could say to Molly at this point that would hurt her feelings, which seemed to bring him some degree of comfort when it was very much an insult.

John was still on medical leave from the clinic and finally the day was his own to spend as he wish. With the best of intentions he made plans to go for a run, do some reading and clean the flat. What he ended up doing was watching two hours of television and buying lunch for Sherlock and Molly so he could ultimately check in on them.

With sandwiches and crisps in hand he jumped in the elevator and took the quick trip up to Molly's floor.

"I've got lunch!" he announced he walked inside.

The room was silent, as it often was, and Molly was at the microscope with a pencil in one hand and another holding her bun in place. "Oh hello," she said with a sweet smile.

John came in close. "How is doing?"

She pointed over at Sherlock who was hovered over the sink as he washed beakers. "Really good actually."

The weight on his shoulders fell to the ground. "Yeah? Oh what a relief."

"Yeah, it was a little weird at first 'cause I didn't know what he wanted to do but he was up for anything. He's been just—I don't know—friendly?"

John chuckled. "You sound surprised."

"It's nice."

"I bet," he said. "Thank you for doing this. It means a lot."

"Of course," she said. "Whatever I can do, just ask."

John set the bags on the counter. "He can come back?"

"Absolutely. As long as he needs to."

John gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You're an angel. Thank you."

She blushed. "Least I could do."


	11. Chapter 11

He seemed happy the next few days. When Sherlock would return from the lab there was energy to his motions and he walked out the door with purpose.

Third day in and John waited outside the hospital for Sherlock to come out so they could go home. But today he waited longer than usual. Sherlock was late.

He sat in the car for nearly thirty minutes before he decided to go in. There was a fine line between being patient and wasting his time.

Just as he got to the front door of the hospital he heard a pair of voices behind the door. It sounded like laughing.

Laughing.

Surely, no—

But the door burst open and there they were, Molly and Sherlock, laughing up a storm. John looked on in disbelief like he'd just had a dream that he couldn't quite shake.

"Oh hi John," Molly said.

Sherlock looked down at his watch. "John! I'm late!"

John crossed his arms. "Yes you are."

Molly and Sherlock looked over at each other and strained to hold in their giggles. "We just got a bit distracted."

John didn't know what to make of it so he just stood and stared.

"Would you care for a bite? We were going to grab a bit of dinner," Sherlock said.

"Dinner?" John asked.

"Well yes. I need to eat, right?"

"Yes, but—" John said.

Molly patted Sherlock on the arm tenderly. "It's okay. Some other time."

"No," John said, "that's fine. I was just surprised."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said as he headed down the street and led the way.

John caught Molly's eye and slowed his walk until Sherlock was out of earshot. "Is he feeling all right?"

She nodded. "Yes. He's been lovely."

"I know," he said, "but it's unusual, yes?"

Molly shrugged. "But is it so bad?"

* * *

The three of them sat at the table in awkward silence. John had never spent much time with Molly and suddenly realized that he knew practically nothing about her. It didn't help that Sherlock sat expectantly like this was a blind date that he'd arranged.

Molly sipped at her wine. "Have you gone back to work, John?"

He shook his head. "Next week probably. They've been very generous."

Sherlock looked up. "Next week?"

"I was going to tell you," he said, "but there's money for taxis."

Sherlock dipped his back to examining the menu.

"We were thinking of going to a movie tomorrow. Would you like to come?" Molly asked.

John cocked his head to make sure he'd heard her right. "We—as you in you and—" he gestured towards the distracted Sherlock.

"Yes. Would you like to come?"

He didn't want to go and he had no reason not to want to go. For nearly two years he'd spent in the flat hearing about amino acids and gunshot wounds instead going to the pub. All that time he'd given up on having a normal flatmate and he thought he was okay with that. But now he hated that this was the choice he had to make. Now he was the odd one.

"Let me think about it," John said.

Sherlock put his menu down. "You should come."

"I said I'd think about it."

The waitress came over chipper and enthusiastic. She turned to Sherlock for his order.

He pointed towards an item on the menu. "Chicken with walnut glaze?" she asked.

For an instant Sherlock's eyebrows leapt in surprise as he looked back down at the menu and then back at the waitress. "Yes," he said.

"Sherlock," John whispered.

"What?"

"You can't—you're allergic to walnuts, remember?"

He smiled nodded away the comment. "Of course."

John's hope deflated. It was a trick, a terrible trick. Sherlock wasn't allergic to walnuts. He didn't remember. He felt dirty as he ordered in his own meal.

When it came back to Sherlock he pointed towards John. "May I have what he's having?"

John bit his tongue. Sherlock hated veal—he'd said so on numerous occasions. There were so many items on the menu. He couldn't understand why picking something was so difficult.

Molly nudged Sherlock with her elbow. "Did you tell him about when Robert came into the lab?"

"Robert?"

"Remember," she said. "Yesterday? With the dog?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock said. "You know Robert?"

Robert was head of surgery. He'd been one of John's supervisors when he was a resident. He couldn't stand Robert. "Yes," he said.

"He brought in a small dog—"

"Chihuahua," Molly said.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and he brought it into the lab and then tried to tie his leash to the stall."

"Stool," Molly said quietly.

"Stool, yes," Sherlock said, "and he walked around and his dog was barking so loudly."

Molly leaned in expectantly. "Remember when he dropped the beaker?"

"The beaker?" Sherlock said.

"When he dropped it."

He looked over at Molly with a blank but pleading stare.

"Robert dropped the beaker and the dog went crazy. Took all three of us an hour to find him. Sherlock had crawl behind the shelving."

Sherlock smiled. "Dusty," he said with a bit of a laugh.

John laughed along with the group but he couldn't shake his worry. Whole parts of Sherlock's day seemed to flit away no sooner than they happened to him. There were years of research and learning that he had dedicated his life to absorbing that were trapped in his mind but if there was impairment they might be locked away forever. Molly would only be a distraction for so long. What would happen next? What would they do?


	12. Chapter 12

Molly corrected him the entire night. Every misspeak and incorrect detail was fixed within moments of it exiting Sherlock's mouth. John tried to catch her eye to command her to stop but it didn't seem to bother anyone but himself.

"How's the veal?" John asked as Sherlock continued to pick at his plate. Most of his food had gone uneaten but for a few potatoes that had rolled away from the meat.

"Not bad," he said.

John smiled. "You never used to like veal. Glad you're branching out."

He couldn't stop himself. There was something about being around Molly that ignited a nasty side of him. He had made comments all night about how much Sherlock had changed and all he did was smile back like it was a compliment. John was waiting for the bang and the anticipation was killing him.

* * *

The moment that Molly got in her taxi, Sherlock grabbed John and pushed them down the street. His hand shook as they moved half a block down the street. "What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock wouldn't talk. He kept looking over his shoulder and then shuffling down the street before peering back again.

"Sherlock, what is going on?"

His face contorted at the words slowly came to the surface. "I don't want to go back."

"Go back where?"

He gestured towards the restaurant. "With her."

"Molly?" he said.

"Yes. With Molly."

John wanted to hear it with his own ears. He wanted to hear that only he was good enough for Sherlock. His jealousy had breached to the surface and was begging to be soothed. "Why?"

Sherlock bowed his head. "I just don't."

"Did she say something?"

"No," he said. "I don't want to talk about it."

He bit his lip and seemed to force himself from tearing up. "Don't make me go back."

"Was it her correcting? She kept speaking over you."

Sherlock tried to walk away but John caught him by the arm and pulled him back. "What?"

"Talk to me. Why don't you want to go back?"

He shook his head. "Can we just go home?"

"Sherlock…"

His eyes were wide and pleading. John held back and bit his tongue. He tried to remember back to the first session with his own therapist. There were two seats against the window and it took two Vicodin and a three shots of Vodka just to get him through the door much less in the chair. He eyed the seats and came up with every excuse he could think of for why he would need to leave. The therapist waited and watched as he took a phone call, grabbed a drink of water and checked to make sure that he'd left enough money in the meter.

When he sat down, the pair of them spent nearly an hour skirting around the issue of why he had to come in the first place. There was nothing that she could do to make him talk. He wanted nothing more that to run out of the room.

"It's fine," John said. "We can go back."

Sherlock forced a bit of a smile. "Could you call her?"

"You want me to—"

"Would you?"

"Of course," John said. "Do you want me to say anything to her? Or just that you want a break?"

"Just a break. I just need to—"

"I understand," John said.

* * *

They returned home and Sherlock went straight into his room but kept the door open which was unusual. His bedroom was reserved for the occasional sleep or to keep John at bay. He heard the rustling at the bookshelf and then the spring of the mattress.

He had to break the bad news to Sherlock that the speech therapist was coming back the next morning for a consultation. The only thing that brought him any hope was that Sherlock seemed in a peaceful mood—he was more docile than normal.

"Hey Sherlock?"

No answer.

He crept into the bedroom and saw his flatmate with a book raised over his head. It was a children's book, one that John had asked to store in Sherlock's room after he forgot to bring it to his nephew's birthday party.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes were focused on the page, the first page.

"Can I speak with you?"

Sherlock brought the book down to his side in a hurry and his cheeks burnt with embarrassment. He put it under his blanket and out of John's view.

"It's about the speech therapist."

"Oh," he said disappointedly. "I see."

"She wanted to come by tomorrow, just to chat."

He looked hurt but it was for his own good. "If you don't like her then it's fine but she wanted to just see where you're at and give you some advice. No commitment."

"John, I'm fine, really."

He wasn't fine, he couldn't be. Sherlock, even in this condition, was intensely private. This could just be the tip of the iceberg. The menu was just the first clue that his reading skills were impaired. If he couldn't decipher hamburger names then what else what going on that John wasn't able to pick up on. The book was just another tick in the direction that he was self-diagnosing and trying to fix himself without any clue how to do it. It was ludicrous to think that Sherlock could cure himself by learning to read all over again. Even a man so brilliant couldn't work miracles.

"For me," he said. "Just do this one thing and then I'll let it go."

He shook his head. "I really don't want to talk to anyone right now."

"She won't tell anyone anything if you don't want her to. Not even me. I promise I won't ask."

He sighed. "Ten minutes."

"For what?"

"I'll talk to her for ten minutes."

John shifted his weight onto one leg and crossed his arms like he was speaking to a naughty teenager. "Absolutely not. An hour."

"Twenty."

"Forty-five."

"Thirty. Tell her thirty and that is the end of it."

It was better than nothing.

John left for a walk as Tracy walked in the door. She was beautiful, as always, but came in with a stern face and ready to go to battle.

"How is he doing?"

Sherlock was still in his room, this time with the door shut, so John jumped on the chance to express his concerns.

"I think he's having trouble reading."

She nodded without much surprise. "You say you  _think_. You don't know."

"He won't tell me but we went out to eat and I don't believe he could make out the menu. I also caught him rereading the same page of a children's book the other night."

"And his speech?"

"In and out. Mostly he is clear but transposes words. Said meat instead of meal…cat instead of cab, things like that."

She patted him on the arm. "John, it's okay."

"What's okay?"

"You're tense. It's okay to relax a little."

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a little worried."

She gestured towards Sherlock's room. "He's a tough one. If anyone's going to pull out of this and make progress it'll be him."

"You think so?"

"You know as well as I do not to make promises."

He bowed his head. "I know."

"But I have faith. This will be hard but the work will be worth it."

He didn't know what to say.

"You can't fix him," she said. "As much as you want him better, it's not in your power."

He walked out the door and down the street and tried to remember the way it used to be. He wanted his friend back. He wanted his life back.


	13. Chapter 13

The half hour felt like an eternity. John walked around the block three times and forced himself to grab a bite to eat just to pass the time. As hard as he tried to put Sherlock out of his mind, he couldn't. Each time he forced another thought into his head it would come rushing back in. No matter what Tracy said, it  _was_ his job. Sherlock was all he had. If he couldn't fix him then what would come of them? What would be their future?

He didn't want to be right on time. If Tracy had worked some kind of miracle then his interruption would ruin whatever flow they'd created. On the other hand if it was going like he'd anticipated then thirty minutes would be more than enough for the both of them.

As he got up to the flat he didn't hear shouting or fighting.

It was quiet.

He opened the door and saw the pair of them sitting across from each other in near silence. Tracy had her arms crossed and Sherlock's back was flat against the back of the chair. Neither of them looked very pleased with the other.

"Am I interrupting?"

Tracy spun around. "Oh no. We were just finishing up."

Sherlock sat and sulked in his area as Tracy cleaned up the papers she had placed on the table in front of him.

"Will you be coming back?"

Tracy forced a smile. "I suppose we'll see."

Sherlock didn't look at her as she walked away.

"Can I speak with you?" she asked.

John looked over at Sherlock who waited expectantly to see if their promise would be broken. He had promised not to interfere. "I said that I would let him do this on his own."

She looked at him with disappointment.

"I see. Well, Sherlock, I told you what I think. I'll send you a report over email—you can share as you wish."

No answer.

"I'll make sure he gets it," John said.

Tracy left and the pair of them stood in silence.

The guilt weighed at him. He had forced Tracy back into their home and now he had left Sherlock's entire medical care to a stubborn man in a superb state of denial.

"Did it go all right?"

Sherlock bowed his head. "I don't want to see her again."

John sighed. "Why? What happened?"

"I don't want her around."

"Sherlock, talk to me. What did she say? Was it upsetting?"

He gripped the side of the couch with a white-knuckled intensity. "You said you wouldn't ask. Don't ask."

Sherlock wasn't ever going to talk about. Tracy's entire visit would be a mystery and any advice would go completely undone. "Is it your reading?"

Sherlock looked up with disdain. "My what?"

"Your reading. Is that what's upsetting you?"

A snarl began to form on his lips and Sherlock leapt to his feet and headed towards the front door.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock stood against the doorframe and gripped it tightly. "You promised."

"What?"

"You promised," he said a bit louder.

John stayed where he was as he tried to sort out what Sherlock was going on about. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't ask."

"I want to help you."

"You can't," Sherlock said. "No one can."

He went out the door and bounded down the steps. John wanted to let him go and vent out his frustrations. Sherlock didn't need a hug and kind words to feel better. Somehow he always seemed to sort out the feelings on his own—John's sympathy only served to frustrate him.

He wanted to call Tracy. It was his job not just as a friend but as a doctor to know where Sherlock was at so he could help. But loyalty was more important. The last thing Sherlock needed now was to feel betrayed.

John grabbed his jacket and chased after his friend.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't gotten far. He went down the street and was at the stoplight. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk and looked all around as people narrowly avoided crashing into him.

John raced to meet him.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock took one look at him and took a step into oncoming traffic. John grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back mere seconds before a taxi sped in front of them. "Jesus," John said. "Be careful."

"Did you call her?"

"Call her?"

"The doctor," Sherlock said with hurt in his voice.

"I didn't."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're lying."

"I didn't."

He shivered as a brisk wind whisked past them. "You did."

"I didn't. Sherlock, I didn't."

There was such fear in his eyes as he cradled his body as the air temperature seemed to plummet around them. "She said it may not come back."

"What? What won't come back?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Sherlock. What did she say?"

"Can we just go back?"

The world seemed to slow all around them. There was such despair to Sherlock's voice as he spoke. Tracy had said something—she had done something to him.

"Of course."

They returned to the flat and Mrs. Hudson was at the door. "The detective is here," she said.

John felt his stomach drop. In all the chaos he hadn't talked to Lestrade since the last time they'd met at the crime scene. As far as Lestrade knew, Sherlock was still on his game.

Sherlock stepped back away from the flat.

"Why is he here?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed. "I don't know. You want to stay out while I talk to him?"

Sherlock picked at his cuticles. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Come up," John said. "I'll deal with him."

Sherlock stood still.

"It's freezing."

Mrs. Hudson looked at the pair and her face softened as she slowly seemed to catch onto the situation. She spun around and grabbed a blanket from the stool near the door and handed it to Sherlock. "Darling, stay down with me. I'll get you a cup of tea while you wait."

She draped the blanket around his shoulders and squeezed his arm. "Come in," she said.

John readied himself for what he would say to Lestrade without breaking the trust he'd built up with Sherlock. It wouldn't be easy.

* * *

Lestrade was outside the door of the flat with the voices from his radio echoing down the stairwell.

"John," he said, "I have a case for you two."

John opened the door and gestured inside. "I've got to talk to you."

"Problem?"

He looked down the stairwell. Sherlock was at Mrs. Hudson's door with the baby blue blanket held tight against his body. He looked fragile and vulnerable—he couldn't hurt him anymore.

"Just a little. Come in…"


	14. Chapter 14

They walked into the flat. There was such an emptiness to the room without Sherlock inside. Lestrade took a few steps inside with his usual crossed arm defensiveness that he possessed whenever he was around Sherlock.

"How's it all going?"

John quickly shut the door behind them and gestured his guest in further.

"It's going," John said.

"He's looking better," Lestrade said.

"Yeah," John said, "I've made him take it easy. We'll see how long that lasts I suppose."

Lestrade laughed. "Good point. So, are you two up for some work?"

John racked his brain for what to say next. There was nothing more important to Sherlock than his pride. As far as the police knew Sherlock was still on his game. With John's tip they had been able to identify the suspect and close the case. They thought it was Sherlock who had solved it. If he told Lestrade where Sherlock was at now then the whole dynamic would change. Without the awe of the police department, Sherlock had little else.

"We're both a little under the weather. Probably not for the best."

"I see," Lestrade said. "How about stakeout. Just sitting a car. Maybe that'd be interesting for him?"

A stakeout sounded dreadful and he could already hear Sherlock argue about what a waste of a mental resources sitting in a vehicle and staring into the streets was and he wasn't in the mood. But then again…

"Let me ask."

"Yeah? He's been against them before."

"I know," he said, "but perhaps he's softened."

Lestrade smiled. "John, take care of yourself as well."

He looked at the detective with confusion. "How do you mean?"

"You don't look well. All the worry, I know it's tough but don't forget about yourself."

For the first time in a week John realized that he hadn't paid attention to his own health. His doctor had given him medication that he hadn't taken and he'd hadn't eaten much of anything since he got home from the hospital. In all the rush of dealing with Sherlock he had completely forgotten about himself.

"I will. Thank you," John said.

* * *

Sherlock was still snuggled in Mrs. Hudson kitchen with a half drunk cup of tea sitting in front of him. She had set out a muffin in front of him but it had gone untouched.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "May I speak to you?"

Sherlock looked over at Mrs. Hudson as if requesting permission. She jumped at the act of submission and grabbed the blanket gently off his shoulders and rubbed his back. A bit of a smile formed on his face as John guided him towards the stairs.

"Lestrade wanted to know if you were interested in a stakeout."

"Did you tell him?" Sherlock began to ask.

"No," John said, "not a word. I just told him that I wasn't feeling well and he suggested something a little less physical."

"I don't know…" Sherlock said.

"It'll be simple. It may give you a chance to get back in your groove, you know? Maybe it'll do you some good," John said.

"You think?"

John shrugged. "I know you can do it again. It's all in there, I just know it."

Sherlock bowed his head. "John, you don't understand."

"I know it," John said. "You aren't done for."

"The doctor said—" Sherlock began to say.

"I don't care. She can say whatever she wants. I don't believe that it's gone."

"John—" Sherlock said with pain in his voice.

"Shut up," John said. "You are not giving up on me. Not after all this."

Sherlock nodded and tried to get past him and towards the flat. John stepped in front of him. "Do you trust me?"

"John…"

"Do you trust me?"

Sherlock looked with fear in his eyes. "Yes," he said with a strained voice.

"Then let's go. It'll be fun."

Sherlock forced another smile and walked back in the flat.

John waited at the door a beat and tried to figure out if this was a huge mistake. How far down the well was Sherlock? Would this even make an impact?

* * *

The stakeout was to wait for the head honcho of a drug dealer circle.

Peter Cartez. They were waiting for Peter Cartez.

Sherlock sat in the car with his jacket pulled high up on his neck and his eyes were trained at the door.

"Test me," Sherlock said.

They hadn't spoken in twenty minutes but in usual Sherlock fashion they began in the middle of a conversation.

"What are you talking about?"

"My father used to be test me on the way to school. It was how I earned my allowance."

John hadn't heard mention of Sherlock's father before. He had always assumed that the topic of Mr. Holmes was one that would not be broached. "Test you on what?"

He tapped his head. "Memory. Mycroft was never as good."

John smiled. "I bet that drove him crazy."

"So tell me where to look and then I'll shut my eyes and you can ask a question."

The exercise felt oddly gentle. There was a boyish sense of giddiness in Sherlock's body as he readied himself for the game. "You sure?"

"If you're right," Sherlock said, "I have to start somewhere. It's not coming back on its own."

John nodded and looked around their immediate area for something simple to remember. They had been sitting in front of a flat with a large apple tree planted in front. It was clear as day what kind of tree and they'd been staring at it for almost an hour.

"Okay, immediately in front of us, along the street."

Sherlock leaned forward and rotated his head just enough to visually take in the scene once again. He then slowly shut his eyes. "What is it?"

"The tree directly in front of us. What fruit was it growing?"

John prayed that he'd get the answer right. The old Sherlock would have already named off the fruit, the species of apples, how many were on each branch and then chide John for such an unnecessary observation.

Sherlock pursed his lips together and pulled his eyes in tight.

"Apple?"

John let out a sigh of relief. "Yes."

"Really?" He hadn't seen Sherlock so happy in days. "Red apples, right?"

John felt like a proud father at his son's band concert. "Yeah. Very nice."

"Let me try another," he said.

John really didn't want to press his luck. The tree was easy. "I don't know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It's fine. It's just practice, right?"

"Of course," John said.

He looked for another easy target. About ten feet away was the street sign for Grant Avenue written in big block letters. Not only was it front of their face, it was the street they were on and written in the directions that John had printed out for Sherlock to follow.

"Okay, it's a sign."

There weren't many signs—just the street sign and the stop sign. Sherlock didn't say anything about his obvious clue. Sherlock shut his eyes.

"What street was on the sign ahead?"

As soon as the words left his lips he realized that Sherlock still hadn't read a word, not even the directions.  _Shit_ , he thought,  _what did I do now?_

"It's a G name…" Sherlock said.

"Yes," John said, hoping that they could move on.

"I can see it," he said.

John tapped the steering wheel. "It's fine. Close enough."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I can see it, John. Give me a moment."

_Please_ , he pleaded,  _just figure it out._

"Grant?"

John's ears perked up. "What'd you say?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Is it Grant? The street name…Grant?"

John couldn't contain his delight. "Yeah," he said, "it is."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat with pride on his face.

Just as the joy began to fade, the door to Peter Cartez's house opened and a figure stepped out. "Is that him?" Sherlock asked.

John looked down at the photo and then back up at the man. In the hazy night light it was hard to be sure but his gut told him yes. "I think so."

Sherlock leaned forward and cocked his head. "Height checks out."

"How can you tell?"

He pointed at the paper. "Says he's six foot. That car is a Hummer—those are a little over six foot and he's the same height."

John looked over in shock. "How in the world do you know that?"

"Tellie," Sherlock said. "News did a report on Hummers. Terribly boring."

John wanted to cry—it was a glimpse back to their old life. He was once again marveled at his friend. Sherlock Holmes never fails to surprise.

"We should call Lestrade," John said.

Sherlock's hand was on the door. "Oh no," he said. "Let's go."

John reached out but it was too late. "Sherlock where are you going?"

Too late.

Sherlock's judgment was impaired. He wanted the thrill of his former life but all of the tools were gone. This Sherlock could not reason or talk his way out of this. He was confused and afraid and had done what his instincts told him that "Sherlock Holmes" was supposed to do.

But he wasn't ready.

John grabbed the gun he'd stored in the glove box and stuffed it in his pocket and ran after Sherlock.

 


	15. Chapter 15

John ran out into the dim light of the early night and towards the rushing silhouette of Sherlock. He gripped the gun in his pocket and was ready to do whatever it took.

As badly as he wanted to scream for his friend to come back, John forced logic back into his mind. What would Sherlock do? As badly as he would like to think that Sherlock would come in guns a-blazing to save him, he knew that more likely than not that would be the last step in a much more elaborate plan.

With one eye on Sherlock, John pulled out his phone and dialed Lestrade. His breath was caught in his throat and the words came out in bursts.

"Sherlock ran out," John said.

"What?" Lestrade said.

"Just come here. Hurry," John said.

He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and slowly walked towards Sherlock who stood at the front door of the black sedan they were supposed to be tailing. He was back about a foot but his posture was aggressive and the passenger inside seemed nearly ready to get rid of his new guest.

"…turn yourself in," Sherlock said.

 _Shit_ , John muttered.  _What had he done?"_

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter said.

Sherlock leaned in through the window. "We know what you've done."

John moved closer and closer to Sherlock and hoped not attract the attention of Peter Cartez.

"I don't know who you think I am but you've got the wrong guy," he said.

Sherlock stood with his mouth open but no words came out. He shook his head violently to the side as if to shake out what he wanted to say. "We—we're—" he began as he clenched his jaw and grabbed the side of the car.

John bent down behind the car and out of sight of Cartez. He gestured for Sherlock to come back with him.

"What's wrong with you?" Cartez said.

Sherlock rubbed his temple. "Nothing. Stop this," he said. "Get out."

Cartez laughed. "I don't think so."

In one motion Cartez lurched his hand out of the car and grabbed onto Sherlock's collar and pulled him close. Sherlock tripped on his own feet and fell against the side of the car. John slowly stood up, grabbed the gun and placed it against his hip.

"Big mistake," Cartez said.

John saw the glint of the gun against Sherlock's head. In one fluid motion he rose above the car and pulled out his own gun and pointed it directly at Cartez's heart. He didn't doubt for an instant that he would kill Cartez if necessary.

He had never seen Sherlock genuinely scared in his life. Gone was the man who'd stared death in the face dozens of times and hardly flinched. Without his mind, Sherlock was a sitting duck being tossed around by the oncoming waves.

His face was contorted and every muscle in his body was keeping him from crying and screaming. With his collar still tethering him to Cartez, Sherlock was stuck even as he tried to push away.

John jumped up and slid alongside the backdoor and placed the gun towards Cartez's head. "Put it down," John said with a slow mannered voice, "or I will shoot you."

With the gun still trained at Sherlock, Cartez looked over with a mischievous smile. "Are you now?"

John didn't move. This was not the time for nerves to take hold. "Absolutely. Let him go."

"John," Sherlock cried out in fear.

John put out a hand in an attempt to calm Sherlock down. "I've got this," he said.

He heard the bang before he felt the pain in his arm. It was Sherlock's scream that brought him back to reality. John looked at his jacket which was already dripping blood. He'd been shot.

There was no time.

In a sheer state of panic, Sherlock went for Cartez's gun and had momentarily confused him long enough for John to get a clear shot. Even as his right arm burned, John lifted the gun and took his shot.

He didn't want to kill Cartez—that wasn't necessary. He just needed to get them out of there. John got a shot and hit Cartez in the shoulder. It was painful but not deadly. The grip on Sherlock loosened as his captor screamed in pain. Sherlock grabbed the gun at limply hung from Cartez's injured arm and fell back onto the street.

"You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock was on the ground and shaking. "I'm fine."

John smiled. "Good," he said as he felt the pain begin to creep on and the blood loss take its toll. He felt light-headed as he walked towards Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock got up and examined where the bullet had gone in.

"You're shot," he said.

John nodded. "It's okay. Just my arm."

Sherlock's face went sheet white. "No it's not okay. Sit down!"

"Sherlock," John chided. "It's okay."

Sherlock grabbed him by the waist and helped John to the sidewalk. He grabbed the lapel of John's coat and gingerly took it off. "I'm so sorry," Sherlock said.

There were sirens in the distance. They were okay. It was going to be okay. Sherlock sat beside him and helped him stay upright. Even half-dazed he could feel Sherlock's body shake.

"It's fine," John said.

He could hear the tears lodged up in Sherlock's throat. "You're hurt."

"Please," John said, "don't blame yourself."

"John…" Sherlock muttered.

John forced a smile. "It's going to be fine."

Sherlock sat in silence as the police car and ambulance pulled in front of them. John could hardly keep his eyes open as Lestrade came running out of the car and towards the pair of them.

"What happened?"

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock interjected. "John's shot," he cried.

Lestrade looked down at John. "Shit. Lie down for God's sake."

"I'm fine," John said. "Deal with Cartez."

Lestrade looked over as the body that lay limp against the door. "Is he dead?"

John shook his head. "Shouldn't be," he said as a wave of pain crested and he gritted his teeth to keep from shouting.

"Help him," Sherlock said.

The paramedics were already rushing over with a gurney. Lestrade went over to the suspect while another emergency worker took Sherlock away from John. He felt Sherlock's hand slip away from his body and Sherlock shout as he was wrenched to the side.

It all got hazy from there. In blurs and bits he saw Sherlock be held back by a paramedic who used all his strength to keep Sherlock from falling apart. He saw another gurney rush over to the car where Cartez lay. He heard Lestrade shout for Sherlock in concern as the dark figure fell to the ground in a heap.

"Sherlock?" he asked as an oxygen mask was placed over his face.

"Sir, please," the paramedic commanded.

"What's happened?"

The paramedic kept him moving. "He's fine, sir. Just overwhelmed."

Overwhelmed. Sherlock was never overwhelmed by anything.

As they placed him in the back of the ambulance he saw a paramedic drape a blanket over his shoulders and sit next to him. He looked so small as he huddled on the sidewalk.

This had been a mistake. He wasn't ready to go out and he'd forced him again.

What he had done?

And what would he do now?


	16. Chapter 16

It wasn't a serious wound, not in the least. More than anything it was uncomfortable but not worth the fracas that Lestrade had created around it. Soon after he was brought in to recover from his numerous stitches and cleanings, Lestrade entered the room with wild indignation.

"What were you thinking?" he said.

John was still dizzy and tried to figure out if they had been having a conversation that he had missed the first half of.

"Greg…" he began to say.

Lestrade took large measured strides towards John. "He's in surgery."

"Who?"

"Cartez!" Lestrade said. "You were just supposed to watch him."

John's head throbbed as the volume of Lestrade's voice escalated. "I know."

"Then why is our prime suspect in surgery?"

"He was going to shoot Sherlock," John said.

Lestrade sighed. "He shouldn't have been there."

"I couldn't stop him," John said.

"You said he was ready. You said he could handle this."

John couldn't remember what lie he had perpetuated with Lestrade at this point. He had gone to such lengths to salvage Sherlock's pride that he'd put his own life in danger. How far could he perpetuate this story? How much longer could they go through the ruse that everything was back to normal?

"I know I said that," he said.

His arm ached so badly that he could feel the pain resound in the back of his skull. It took everything in him just listen to what Lestrade had to say. He couldn't do this anymore. No more lies. No more stories.

"Why?" Lestrade asked.

"I thought it'd be good for him," John said. "I was wrong."

"Damn right you were wrong."

He sighed. "Greg, please. Can we do this later?"

"No we will not. Do you understand how much trouble that I'm in right now?" Lestrade's face had grown red and his eye twitched. He was furious. John had never seen Lestrade upset. This must have been worse than even he was letting on.

"Did you not notice the part where I was shot?"

Lestrade stood in blustering anger. "I know. I'm sorry. But that doesn't change that you two are done. Done. Do you understand?"

"What are you talking about?"

Lestrade leaned in. He stunk of sweat, blood and coffee and the bags under his eyes gleamed in the fluorescent light. "What's actually going on with him? What didn't you tell me? I'm just  _dying_ to know."

If he didn't know Lestrade better, John would have thought he was seconds away from a punch in the face. "Just go," John said.

"Did he even solve that robbery?"

John bowed his head.

"I knew it," Lestrade said. "And to think I defended him after that. Everyone told me to let him loose. They thought he had lost it but no, I believed you. Do you take me for an idiot?"

John felt the morphine they'd given him begin to take hold. Nothing felt wrong to say. All the cards were on the table now. "He's gone. It's all gone," John said.

Lestrade took a step back.

"He can't even read. He can't remember a thing. It's all gone. He's useless to you now so it's fine. Fire him. Do us both a favor."

The fury in Lestrade's face dissipated as he processed what John had just said. "John…"

As hard as his medication worked to slow him down, John felt himself lose control of his emotions. The anger of the past few weeks all came out. "Just go," he said. "Don't bother us anymore."

"I didn't know," Lestrade said.

"Then you shouldn't have come in here," John snapped.

Lestrade began to walk forward and John could see a figure at the doorframe. The red blanket. The black jacket. The blue scarf.

Shit.

Sherlock didn't say a word. He just stood there with his arms crossed across his chest. Lestrade followed John's gaze and his face fell. "Sherlock…" he began to say.

Sherlock didn't run away but John wished that he had. He just stayed there and stared at two people whom, a few minutes prior, he had trusted. "I just wanted to check on—" he said as he pointed towards John.

"Of course," Lestrade said. "You all right?"

Sherlock nodded and went out of his way to not make eye contact. "I'm fine."

As Sherlock passed, Lestrade grabbed him by the arm. "You'll have to come down and make a report."

"A report—yes—that's fine." Sherlock spoke even slower than before.

"They'll want to know what happened. Do you remember?"

Sherlock's gaze went towards John. It was a look of absolute betrayal. "It just happened," Sherlock said.

"I know, but—" Lestrade said.

Sherlock pulled his arm away. "I remember it just fine."

Lestrade dragged a ragged hand across his face. He was exhausted and his night had just begun. "We'll be in touch," he said.

Sherlock had already taken a seat against the wall. Lestrade had played this game with Sherlock enough to know that the conversation was over whether he liked it or not.

"I'll be back," he said to John as he went out the door.

The moment that Lestrade was gone, Sherlock stood up and began to head for the door.

"Where are you going?"

He wrenched his fingers in frustration. "Why would you say that?"

He'd heard it all. "I'm sorry. I was angry."

"You promised."

He felt the pain medications grabbing hold of him. He could hardly keep his eyes open. "I know. Please. Just listen to me."

"I trusted you," he said as his tears coated his voice.

John had never felt so guilty than he did in that moment. "You don't understand…"

Sherlock looked even more hurt. "I shouldn't have run," he said. "I'm sorry."

John sighed. "You just did what you normally do. That wasn't necessarily the wrong thing to do. You just aren't ready for it right now."

Sherlock wiped away a tear that formed along his bottom lid. "You said I was useless."

Had he said that? Oh God. He had. "That's not what I meant. You're not—"

Sherlock threw his shoulders back and forced himself into the confident posture that he'd seen himself have in the newspaper clippings. "It's okay, John. You're allowed to feel that way."

He was exhausted. John could hardly form the words anymore but he didn't want to end their conversation this way. "I don't feel that way. I was angry. It came out wrong."

"Goodbye John," he said.

John reached out for him. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be at the flat when you're well."

He wasn't come back to the hospital. Sherlock was already fazing him out. "Sherlock, please. Let's just talk about this."

He shook his head. "I'm doing us both a favor. I won't bother you anymore."

John couldn't stay awake any longer. The last thing he saw before he passed out was Sherlock walking out the door.

Come back, he pleaded.

Come back.


	17. Chapter 17

When he woke up, Sherlock was gone. John texted him over and over again but there was no response. As he nestled the thin scratchy hospital blanket up to neck he tried to imagine how he could fix this.

His entire life had been dedicated to helping those who couldn't help themselves. Why was this so hard? He had seen so much worse. He had been around people so much more helpless and he had been able to work miracles. How had gotten this all so wrong?

It was gone. Everything that he had gained from the moment he walked onto Baker Street had been ripped away. If Sherlock ever forgave him their relationship would be different. There wouldn't be that easy transition from adventure to normalcy that the two of them had been able to perform all this time. There was such comfort when he was around Sherlock. He never had to worry when he was around Sherlock—it felt like everything would eventually be okay if he was there. And then, when Sherlock needed him, he had sent him out into the cold to fend for himself. He had never been so ashamed.

They let him go that afternoon but he didn't want to go home. What would even there when he arrived. In the best of scenarios Sherlock would be frosty and superficially nice while he simmered under the surface. At the worst he would arrive to all of his items on the street and an eviction notice on the door. He couldn't do it. He couldn't face him.

John walked the streets for an hour towards Harry's flat. They hadn't spoken much in the last year, just chitchat on the holidays and on birthdays. He brought over a gift for his nephew's first communion and she invited him over for Christmas dinner but they never spoke about much more than the weather and the football scores.

But she was the only person left who didn't hate him. By the time he was at the door, John could hardly hold back the tears. His arm hurt, his head hurt and he hadn't felt worse.

The door opened and his nine-year-old niece opened the door. Her little face fell when she saw the state of him. Immediately she spun around and shouted for her mother. "Mom! Uncle John is here!"

"What?" Harry screamed back.

"Uncle John is at the door!"

Harry came around the corner with a washcloth in one hand and a wet bowl in the other. "Emily what are you talking about?" That was when they caught each other's eyes.

"Oh," she said with surprise. "I didn't expect you."

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry. If I'm bothering you."

His arm was in a sling and it hung tight against his chest. "What happened to your arm?"

He looked over at his niece who looked on with curiosity. "I got shot."

"Jesus," Harry said. "You all right?"

"Can I come in?"

She looked down at her daughter. "Yeah, that's fine. Emily can you get Uncle John some water?"

Emily skirted away to the kitchen as Harry opened the door. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," he said with a smile.

"Why aren't you home?" she asked.

He blinked back the tears. "I can't," he said.

Her face fell as he wiped his eyes. "Oh dear. Come in."

* * *

Harry had the kids go to their room as she brought out a bottle of wine and all the sweets she could scrounge up from her kitchen. She rubbed his back as he recounted the past month of his life.

"Darling, it will be fine. You were just angry. He must understand."

John shook his head. "He's different now. It's all changed."

"It probably feels that way for him too."

"He hates me," John said.

Harry moved in closer. "He doesn't hate you."

"I think he does."

"Never," she said. "You just said what he was scared to hear. And now it's out in the open. I'm sure he's hurt but he doesn't hate you."

"You should have seen his face," John said.

Harry gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. "You want to stay here tonight?"

As badly as he wanted to never have to confront Sherlock again, he also felt an immense need to make sure he wasn't alone in the flat any longer than he had to be. As isolated as John felt, Sherlock had to feel even more lost. "I don't think I should."

She patted his head like she used to when they were young. Harry was always there when his mother was too frazzled or drunk to pay attention to him. She was the first person that he would go to after the boys at school roughed him around or he got in trouble with the teacher. She always knew just what to say."

"I think you should see him. It might make you feel better." She handed him a tissue and gave him another kiss on the top of the head.

He laid his head against her chest and let his eyes rest. "And what if—"

She squeezed him tight. "Then you come back here for all long as you need."

* * *

Harry drove him back to Baker's Street after dinner. The daylight had already dipped below the surface and the street glimmered with the street lamps. He peered up to see the flat illuminated. Sherlock was home. He was at least thankful for that.

"Good luck," she said as she drove away.

Mrs. Hudson loitered in the hall as he walked in the door. She dusted the paintings and feigned using the broom but her rouse was unconvincing. The moment she saw him she dropped everything.

"Oh John. You're home," she said.

"I'm back," he said.

She looked upset, not that it was out of character for her these days. "He had a man up there," she said.

"A man?"

She sighed. "A nasty man. Very rude."

"What are you talking about?"

Years of frustration seemed etched her face as she spoke. "Years back he'd have men like that come into the flat. I always hated them—Sherlock promised they'd be no trouble. They were only there for business, he said. He thought I didn't know but I did."

John slowly put the pieces together. Mrs. Hudson was trying to say drug dealers without actually saying it.

"Oh no," John said. "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"Shit," he muttered. "Thank you for telling me."

"Be careful," she said.

John climbed the stairs and opened the door to a Sherlock who lay on the couch with the TV blaring. To his side was a stack of books and three glasses of water. The violin case was opened and the bow was on the floor two feet away. Every light was on and the kettle rang out in the kitchen. John ran to the stove and turned it off.

He walked over to Sherlock who lay with a slack expression as a commercial danced across the screen.

"Hello," Sherlock mumbled.

John went about turning off a few of the lamps. "Sorry I was late. Had to go see Harry."

No answer.

John grabbed the violin case and stuck it on the couch by Sherlock's feet. "Were you playing?"

Sherlock quickly gazed up and then plopped back down with a huff. "Tried."

"Can I put it away?"

"Sure."

But he didn't want to put it away. He wanted to set this right. John stuck the violin by the couch and grabbed the remote. He clicked the TV off and Sherlock hardly seemed to notice.

"We need to talk," John said.

"No," Sherlock said, "we don't."

"Yes we do. Will you just listen to me?"

Sherlock flipped over so his back was to John and he pulled the blanket up over his head.

"I'm sorry for what I said."

No answer.

"I was angry at Lestrade. It came out wrong."

"Just go," Sherlock said.

"Please, just listen to me."

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and rotated his head to meet John's eyes. "Just leave me alone."

He took a sharp breath and thought through the thousands of things he wanted Sherlock to know. There were so many things left unsaid between them that were being left in the ether. All that his friend thought of himself now was that he was a useless waste of time and there was nothing he could do to change that. He didn't know that he was the best friend that John could have ever asked for. He didn't know that he had saved John's life by accepting him into his own.

He had no idea what he had done.

John held his tongue. Those words would only kill him more.

"Good night," John said.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow things will be better.

Maybe.


	18. Chapter 18

John didn’t dare go very far. He stayed in his room for a few minutes and camped out in the living area to keep an eye on Sherlock. The TV mumbled along on the same channel for six hours before Sherlock finally decided to get up and go to his room. His eyes were dark and sunken and his skin was sallow and ashen. It was haunting as the grim light of the television caught the contures of his face as he walked to his bedroom. John, with hardly the strength to move a finger, fell asleep in the chair.

            Two hours later he awoke to banging and pounding from Sherlock’s room. It was hardly dawn and already the floor shook with fury as the banging continued insistently.

            “Sherlock?” he shouted from the chair in the hopes it would elicit some kind of reaction. When the banging only got louder and was accompanied by a crash of something delicate he got up and ran to the door.

            It was unlocked which was unlike Sherlock. The rare times he ever bothered to sleep it was in a room that was impenetrable from all walks of life.

            John burst through the door to a mound of books scattered across the floor. Next to a rickety stack of encyclopedias was the lamp that John had bought for him last Christmas smashed into pieces on the floor.

            “What are you doing?” he asked.

            Sherlock stood amongst his carnage with a deranged look on his face. “I’m cleaning, John.”

            “It’s four in the morning.”

            “I must get rid of these. Someone else can use them.”

            “Jesus,” he muttered. “What did you take?”

            Sherlock looked over with a manic expression. “Nothing.”

            “Stop lying to me,” he said. “What are you on?”

            “It’s not your problem,” Sherlock said. “I thought I was of no use to you. Not sure why you even care, really.”

            John could hardly see straight. His arm ached with each minuscule motion and standing with Sherlock only served to tighten every muscle in his body to the point where he felt it would all snap under the pressure. “I apologized for that. I said I was sorry.”

            Sherlock threw another handful of books onto the floor. “You may go.”

            John walked into the room and straight towards the dresser. Mycroft had warned him that whenever Sherlock was tempted to revert back to his addictive ways that the sock drawer was the first place to check. As brilliant as Sherlock was, he was dreadful at hiding his bounty.

            “What are you doing?” Sherlock said as he shoved the book in his hand back onto the shelf.

            John just kept moving.

            “Stop!” Sherlock shouted.

            He grabbed the drawer and yanked it open. The socks were lined up in crisp lines except for a pair that stuck up a bit more than the others. John peered underneath and found the small bag of cocaine underneath.

            He stuck it in his pocket and turned to walk out of the room. There was nothing to discuss. He had promised Mycroft very little but drugs was the main go of it. He had never cried at the idea of his brother relapsing again.

            “John!” Sherlock said as John left the room.

            He wasn’t going to get in a fight with Sherlock or even begrudge him a weak moment. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand what Sherlock was going through—there were loads of times when he would have killed for escape from the exhausting nightmares and complete lack of control after he returned from Afghanistan. He understood the need for a release but this wasn’t going to be it. Sherlock would need to find another way.

            He got two steps out of the door before he felt the corner of a hardback novel slam into his back. The jolt rocked him off his feet and John had to grab the doorframe just to keep from passing out.

            Sherlock strode across his mess and stuffed his hand down John’s jacket pocket. John hardly had the ability to move but he focused all that energy on grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and pulling it away.

            “Stop,” John said.

            “Give it to me,” Sherlock said.

            John contorted his body in an attempt to escape Sherlock’s grasp. It was clear that he was already high and the unfiltered energy only served to make him more persistent and stronger.

            Sherlock grabbed at John collar and began to pull him away from the door.

            “Eh, stop it,” John said as he tried to pull himself away.

            “Give it back,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

            John was pulled back into the room. The stitching of his jacket sleeve dug into his wound and the pain was too much. He fell to the ground on top of a pile of magazines that had been thrown against the bedside table. As soon as John was down, Sherlock grabbed the baggie from his jacket and went back to work.

            John couldn’t move. Everything hurt too much. He laid his head on top of  a National Geographic and tried to breathe through the pain. At least a few stitches had popped, he was sure of that, he just hoped the rest remained intact. The last thing he wanted to do was go all the way back to the hospital at this point.

            “John. Go,” Sherlock said.

            He didn’t want to stay. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with Sherlock when he was in this state but he was trapped. He pressed his hand against the bleeding bandage and snuck a peek. Blood trickled down his arm and caught against his shirtsleeve.

            “Your arm?” Sherlock said.

            John applied pressure to stop the bleeding. “Yeah,” he said. “My stitches…”

            He had thrown a book at him. John couldn’t believe what had just happened. Sherlock wasn’t violent. He never did anything more than couch an insult with an even bigger insult. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t abusive.

            He didn’t want to blame Sherlock for what he’d done. There was the real man buried somewhere and it was being suffocated by this damaged soul.

            “I’ll get Mrs. Hudson,” he said.

            “No,” John said. “It’s far too early. I’ll be fine.”

            As Sherlock started to walk to the other side of the room, his movements became more gawkish and awkward. He bumped into the bedpost as he swayed side to side in attempt to regain balance.

            He groaned as he grabbed onto the bookshelf. The drugs were not interacting well with the older less capable version of Sherlock. His heart appeared to be beating far too fast and the emaciated vessel could hardly function.

            “Sherlock, sit down,” John said.

            “Shut up,” he said.

            “Enough,” John said. “You’re ill. Sit down.”

            Sherlock tried to release himself from his crutch but it only took a moment before another wave of light-headedness took over and he was back to holding onto the shelf for dear life.

            “Yeah okay,” he said as he carefully maneuvered himself from the shelf to the bed. He sat with his head cradled in his hands.

            “You can’t keep doing this,” John said.

            Sherlock sighed. “No choice.”

            “There’s always a choice,” John said.

            “Please don’t tell Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

            “I have to,” John said.

            Sherlock looked up with a look of boyish horror. There was such unbridled fear in his eyes. “No. Please.”

            “You can’t do this.”

            His hands shook. “He’ll be mad.”

            “Exactly,” John said.

            “I need it,” he said quietly. “It makes me feel normal.”

            “This is not normal. This is not you.  You’re just hurting yourself.”

            “Just a little longer—just until I start remembering,” Sherlock said.

            Sherlock’s face haunted him. It was the same face that he saw in the mirror mere moments before his first suicide attempt. It was the face of a man out of choices. 


	19. Chapter 19

It hurt just to breathe.

            John didn’t move for nearly an hour as Sherlock quietly picked up the books from the floor placed them haphazardly on the shelf. From the corner of his eye he could see the morning sun peeking through the curtains. It was another day, another chance.

            The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, so all he needed to deal with now was the aching that radiated down his entire body. His pain meds were all in his room and the prospect of getting up and walking the forty feet to get there sounded impossible.

            “Water?”

            John looked up to see Sherlock placing the last few magazines on the shelf.

            “What?” he groaned.

            “You want water?”

            “No,” John said. “I’m fine.”

            Sherlock tapped his fingers frantically against his legs. “You haven’t moved for an hour.”

            “It’s just more comfortable down here. I’m really okay.”

            Sherlock sighed before leaving the room.

            John remembered back to his first attempt a few weeks after returning to London. The gun felt so heavy in his hand. It waited down his entire body with its significance. He could still feel the shiver that ran down the back of his neck as he pressed the barrel to the side of his head and dug the metal into his skin until it ached under the pressure.

            He couldn’t go down that road again. He couldn’t let himself be so clouded as to not see what could be beyond the dark clouds.

            Sherlock returned with his hands full—he’d cradled a glass on water in his elbow and had pill bottles and bandages in the other. In an elaborate and delicate process he lowered it down onto the desk.

            “You need to sit up and drink.”

            John felt sick to his stomach at the prospect. Bit by bit he pulled himself up against the bed and bit his tongue to keep from groaning in pain. Sherlock walked over and placed the glass of water on the floor next to John along with a week worth of pain medication.

            “I don’t know your dose,” Sherlock said.

            John grabbed a pill and let it slide down his throat. “Thank you,” he said.

            “Now tell me how to change your bandage.”

            “Oh no,” John said. “That’s all right. I can do that.”

            “You can’t. You’re injured, John.”

            “Yes but I can do it myself.”

            Sherlock already had the gauze and the bandage in his hands. “You think I can’t do it.”

            “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

            “Do you?”

            John clenched his eyes. “That’s not it. Just leave them here and I’ll do it later.”

            It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sherlock, it was that he didn’t want to deal with any of it any longer. The pain seemed endless. There was no solution to this. He couldn’t fix Sherlock and without Sherlock he was nothing.

            Sherlock grabbed the bag of first aid equipment and placed it in front of John.

            “Tell me what to do or I’m calling an ambulance.”

            “Sherlock…” John said.

            Sherlock cocked his eyebrow and made it clear he wasn’t joking around.

            “Okay,” John said. “Let’s get this over with.”

            John gently took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. The whole length of his arm had a layer of blood caked on and the bandage was saturated.

            “You have to take off the old bandage,” John said.

            Sherlock began to attack the tape with bare hands.

            “Gloves,” John said gently.

            “Of course,” Sherlock said.

            John guided him step by step and Sherlock didn’t say a word to complain. He sat with an eagle eye on each detail and didn’t even flinch when John needed to correct him. As he flattened the last piece of tape on the new bandage, Sherlock smiled.

            “There you go,” he said.

            John craned his head to see Sherlock’s handiwork. It wasn’t perfect but it was make do. More than anything it was the look on Sherlock’s face that boggled him more.

            Such pride.

            “Thank you,” John said.

            “It’s good?”

            “Very good. Thank you.”

            Sherlock humbly nodded before turning back to his discombobulated bookshelves. “You were right,” he said.

            John hoisted himself up and settled himself on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean?”

            “Lestrade was right, too.”

            He couldn’t do this again. “I’ve told you…” John began.

            Sherlock straightened out a set of Dickens novels. “I’m not mad. I mean I was but now I’m not.”

            “Sherlock are you still on something?”      

            “That’s not the point,” Sherlock said which amounted to a yes.

            “It is the point. You can’t escape your reality.”

            “I’ve done it before. Years ago. That’s how I came to meet Lestrade. That’s why I’m his consultant. I didn’t plan for this.”

            “I don’t understand,” John said.

            Sherlock sighed. “Never mind.”

            John had always figured that Sherlock had been discovered like a singer in a nightclub. “No, tell me.”

            “After university, I was to be going to medical school like my father. He’d arranged it all. I was there for about three months before my mother was diagnosed…” His voice trailed off. It was a good sign he could remember the story in such detail but at what cost.

            “…and Mycroft couldn’t come home. He had his business so I had to quit.”

            Medical school. He had never said he had set foot in medical school.

            “Father was gone so much of the time so I had to do all of the work. It was only a month. So fast…”

            John had heard bits and pieces about Mrs. Holmes from Mycroft but only in the driest most clinical senses. She’d been diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer and died shortly thereafter. He had no idea that Sherlock was there for all of it.

            “I tried to go back to school but I couldn’t focus. My father began to drink again and Mycroft was busy.”

            John looked up. “So you took drugs?”

            “A bit at first,” Sherlock said.

            “And then?”

            “And then a lot,” he said.

            Sherlock pushed the gold book stop against the end of the row. “I was expelled,” he continued. “Father wouldn’t speak to me. Still hasn’t.”

            “Jesus,” John said. “For all that time.”

            Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft was on his side until I was put in hospital. Two weeks in there until he took me home.”

            Overdose. Mycroft had talked about that a while back and sworn John to secrecy. They wanted to commit Sherlock to a mental facility but Mycroft took him out and brought him to his home.

            “He had police friends who let me observe the autopsies. I met Molly then—she let me help. Then I found things on the body, things they didn’t notice. It all came from there.”

            Sherlock looked wistfully out towards the window.

            “I couldn’t handle life without her. I escaped. I could have kept escaping. It felt good.”

            John couldn’t argue. He understood completely. “I know what you mean. I did it too—more than you think. But this isn’t the answer. This isn’t who you are.”

            “It is now,” Sherlock said.

            John forced himself onto his feet. “You aren’t just a detective. There’s much more to you.”

            Sherlock forced a smile. “Maybe,” he said. “But right I can’t. You understand?”

            His heart ached as the hope seemed to fade from Sherlock’s face.  “Don’t give up.”

            “I’ll try,” he said. “Just let me do this for a bit. Just let me not think…”

            Not think.

            If only it were that easy.


	20. Chapter 20

They lived like that for a few weeks. John would turn away as Sherlock handed the cash to his dealers and not say a word as he got high in his bedroom. For those weeks there weren't any arguments or tension. Sherlock went through the day, went to talk to Tracy and even started back up with Molly again. Lestrade had backed off completely—Sherlock didn't have to think about anything harder than healing himself.

John finally felt comfortable enough to go back to work full-time. In theory he was terrified that being away from Sherlock all day would be a recipe for disaster. All he could imagine was Sherlock falling down the stairs or slipping into a coma after he took too much. His first day back, John checked in every hour and Sherlock was absolutely fine. He'd even come home to a kettle of tea and a plate of biscuits that he'd made with Mrs. Hudson.

It was positively homey with Sherlock just a bit distracted from his own thoughts. Even with the occasional mental setback of forgetting his keys or losing track of a story, he seemed hopeful.

John came home in a hurry that night. He had a date lined up with Tracy and he was supposed to meet her at the restaurant in an hour. His stomach tingled with butterflies. It was all back to normal again—his biggest worry was what he would say to a beautiful woman while they shared a bottle of wine.

He walked into the dim flat and was greeted with the sonorous sounds of a movie play in their home. Never once had he returned from work and seen Sherlock doing anything less than Dr. Frankenstein's leftover projects. And there he was, sitting on the couch with a film.

"Sherlock, you want some popcorn?"

John looked around the corner.

Molly. He had Molly over.

He practically started to cry as she brought a large bowl filled with popcorn over to the couch. He didn't even want to go in, lest he somehow destroy the whole fragile dynamic.

"John!" Molly said as she spied him at the doorway.

Sherlock had his arm draped over the back of the couch and there was a softness to his whole body even as Molly plopped back down next to him.

John stepped in gingerly. "It's nice to see you," he said. "I didn't know you were here."

She shrugged. "Sherlock invited me after work. I've been meaning to see this film and my tellie's broken. So…"

"No, it's fine. Great. Stay as long as you'd like. I'm going to make a quick change and I'll be out of your hair."

"Where're you going?" Sherlock asked.

John had told him at least three times about the date but he held himself back from reminding Sherlock of that fact. "Date. With Tracy."

"Tracy? My doctor?" Sherlock asked.

They'd already had this exact conversation. Sherlock wasn't happy about the prospect of his flatmate and his doctor rummaging about in his affairs but he had gotten beyond it. At least John had thought they'd sorted it all out.

"Yes," he said. "You told me you were fine with it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to refute but held back. Perhaps he remembered the talk they'd already had or he simply didn't want to be any more embarrassed. "Of course. Have a good time."

* * *

Candles. Wine. Seat by the window.

It was perfect.

Tracy's eyes glittered as the candle's flame flickered across her face. She looked gorgeous and John could hardly focus long enough to eat his food.

"I'm glad we're doing this," Tracy said. "It's been a long time coming, eh?"

John nearly choked on his chicken. "How do you mean?"

She pointed her fork towards him. "You were a terrible little stalker back in med school. You think I didn't see you in the library?"

"Are you serious?"

"I thought it was sweet," she said. "Made me feel special."

John smiled. "Unbelievable. All the groundwork…"

"I always thought you were very cute. Felt like an idiot that I didn't really talk to you," she said.

"Well you should have," John said. "I was quite the catch."

"I bet you were," she said as she took another sip of wine.

"Oh," he said, "I wanted to thank you for sticking around. He's like a different person now."

She nodded but her body language seemed to wilt.

"What?" he asked.

She picked at her salad. "It's nothing."

"No," he asked, "what is it?"

She looked up with frustration in her eyes. "I'm not supposed to talk about it with you. He was very clear about that."

John poured Tracy another glass of wine. "Forget I brought it up. That was wrong."

She took a sip and seemed to ruminate. "You should talk to him."

"He seems so much better though," he said with his words caked in disappointment.

She nodded. "I know. And he is. But he needs a friend. There are some things I think he just needs to get off his chest."

He couldn't even begin to decipher what that meant but the likelihood he would do what she said was near zero. For the first time, Sherlock was functioning positively.

"Okay," he said. "Anyway, how about this wine, eh?"

* * *

Their night rounded out at about one in the morning after a long leisurely walk around town and another cocktail at the pub near her flat. Even after all that she sent him home—no shagging on the first date.

He couldn't wipe the smile off his face. Tracy was beautiful and perfect in every way. She was the kind of woman he could see himself marrying one day—smart, gorgeous and tolerant of his more nontraditional social circle. He felt light as a feather as he skipped up the steps to the flat.

The lights were out and the movie was off.

"Sherlock?" he asked as he stepped into the flat.

"Shh."

He peered through the darkness to see Molly groggily sitting on the couch. Sherlock's head leaned against her shoulder and he was out of the count.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Molly smiled. "It's okay. I was just leaving."

He helped her up from the couch and draped a blanket over Sherlock.

"How was your date?" she asked.

"It was wonderful," he said. "How was the movie?"

He could tell she was blushing even in the darkness. "Very nice," she said.

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and a hug. "Come 'round any time."


	21. Chapter 21

The first sign should have been that John awoke to a fully cooked breakfast. Sherlock was over the stove with a spatula in one hand and an oven mitt in the other. He scrambled the eggs with flair.

"What is this?" John asked.

Sherlock gestured towards the table, which already contained a plate of toast in the middle. "Breakfast."

"I see that. But why? You never cook."

He shrugged. "I wanted to cook."

John let it slide. It was nice to wake up to eggs and tea without having to do any of the work. If it made Sherlock happy then it couldn't hurt anyone. He sat in the chair and grabbed a slice of toast.

"How's your arm?" Sherlock asked.

The sling was coming off in a few days. The mobility was still compromised but the constant pain had dulled to merely a nuisance. "Better."

"Wonderful," he said as he carefully scooped the eggs from the pan.

It was normal. It was like living with any normal flatmate.

That was what made him so uncomfortable. He was simply waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it had been nearly a month of relative mediocrity. Their lives were suddenly nothing special and Sherlock seemed to be completely fine with that fact.

He sat down with John's plate in hand as well as his own. As he poured the tea, he said "So Molly has me going to an autopsy."

John shook his head. "An autopsy?"

"Yeah," he said. "She said I used to help her with them."

"Yes," John said, "but that was before. You sure you want to do that?"

Sherlock nodded. "I do."

John should have said no. He should have called Molly and questioned her sanity to put Sherlock in such a position. He should have just had Sherlock stay home. But no. He smiled and gave his blessing.

"Have fun," he said.

* * *

His mobile rang in the middle of meeting with a patient. He'd forced himself to not dive for it every time that someone called. He had to let Sherlock make his own mistakes and fight his own battles. He let it go to voicemail as he checked Mrs. Alberts' ear for an infection.

A few minutes later it rang again.

He continued his exam all while willing himself not to see who was calling. He couldn't be everyone's errand boy. He had a job all his own—Sherlock wasn't his responsibility.

And then it rang a third time.

He couldn't wait anymore. He excused himself from the groggy Mrs. Alberts and pulled out his phone.

3 calls. All from Molly.

"Shit," he muttered.

He scribbled a prescription for antibiotics and shoved the slip in her hands. No sooner did she walk out the door, John was on the phone. The chirp of the ringing phone felt endless.

"John?" Molly said.

"What is it?" he asked.

There was a long pause.

"Molly!" he shouted.

"John, can you come?"

He felt his heart clench. "What happened?"

"They had to take him out."

"Molly, what in the world are you talking about?"

She sounded terrified. "Security. They had to take him out."

"What did he do?"

"He didn't mean to…" she said. "I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't have. I just thought it was different. I thought I could…" Her voice trailed off.

John already had his jacket in his arm and was racing out the door. "Molly, please, you have to talk to me."

There was mumbling on the other end of the line. John recognized Lestrade on the other end. "Are the police there?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Jesus," he said. "Can I talk to one of them?"

"Okay," she whimpered into the phone.

He didn't even remember getting into the cab but somehow he was on the road. It felt like being trapped in a nightmare—everything was heightened and nothing was safe.

"John. You coming?"

Lestrade.

Not a good sign.

"I am. Can you please tell me what's going on."

Lestrade sighed. "He attacked Anderson. And then Molly."

"Anderson?"

"Yeah. They were down here to confirm an autopsy result for the double homicide last week and they ran into each other. I don't have the whole story but Anderson provoked Sherlock somehow and he exploded. Stabbed him a scalpel. He's in surgery."

"Oh my god," John said. "Molly?"

"Collateral damage. We don't think he meant to hurt her."

"Is she okay?"

"Bruises. Little cut on the arm from the scalpel. Nothing major. More shaken than anything."

He felt his body go numb as the driver slowed the taxi to a crawl. "How is he?"

"Agitated. Confused I suppose. John, they're going to want to run a drug test. Is there anything I should know about?"

Sherlock would be mortified if Lestrade knew he was using again. But, conversely, Lestrade was the only person that had the power to minimize any drug reports. "I think he began up again."

"I see," he said, disappointed. "Pills?"

"I believe cocaine. I couldn't find it." Lies, all lies. John felt truly like shit as he forced a narrative that neither man believed.

"Alright," Lestrade said. "Well I don't know if they'll do the test. I'll see if I can talk them out of it."

* * *

He didn't want to go inside. There were two police cars in front of the hospital with their lights illuminating the entire street. It would be so simple to just go home.

"Getting out, mate?"

He gripped the door handle and willed himself to get out. It hurt his soul to walk towards the door and imagine what hell he was about to enter into once he got inside.

Lestrade stood in the lobby with the other policemen milling about around him. He looked exhausted as John walked towards him.

"Oh good, you're here," Lestrade sad.

John forced himself to be strong. They were not going to see him fall apart. "Where is he?"

Lestrade pointed towards the hallway. "I've got a cadet in there with him. He was asking for you—thought you could calm him down before we bring him in."

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

"He could have killed Anderson," Lestrade said. "He's not well. Please, can you just speak to him?"

Arrested. He should have guessed this was not far off.

The room they kept him in was a blank conference room. The cadet was across the table with a cup of coffee in front of her and her watchful eyes glued to Sherlock who sat passively across the table from her.

His wrists were shackled and pulled behind his back. There was a spot of blood on his dress shirt and a nasty bruise on the side of his head. His face was puffy and red—he'd been crying.

Sherlock never cried.

"Hey," he said.

The cadet gave a slight nod and exited the room, leaving her empty chair swiveling behind her. John took her seat and just looked at the man in front of him. It was a pale facsimile of the person he used to know.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock looked up with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's going to be fine," John said. "Are you all right? Can I get you something?"

He shook his head.

"I'll post your bail. You'll be home tonight. Sherlock, it's going to be okay."

He was scared. Panicked. "Is he okay?"

"Anderson?"

He nodded.

"I think so."

"Molly?"

"Bruises. Nothing bad."

"I'm sorry," he whimpered.

John got up from his chair and walked over to Sherlock. He was trembling in his seat. John embraced him and pulled him in tight. "It's fine. It happens. Anderson's a twat anyhow."

They sat like that for nearly a minute. Then he felt Sherlock's body begin to tighten the pull back from him.

"You should go," Sherlock said.

John pulled back. He couldn't hide his hurt.

"I can do this on my own."

He walked back a few feet. "I didn't mean anything…"

Sherlock shook his head. "He was right," he said with calculated sharpness.

"Who? Who was right?"

Sherlock looked up with hate in his eyes. "You have to go."

"Sherlock…"

"Go," he snarled. "Now."

He walked towards the door and waited for the inevitable apology couched in a passive aggressive insult that often accompanied a Sherlock Holmes snide remark but there was none. He was being sent away.

Who was right? What had Anderson said?

He walked back into the eye of the nightmare—unable to see what was beyond the next corner. He'd have to see Molly. He had to know what happened.


	22. Chapter 22

After the police had left and chaos had faded, Molly sat in the lobby of the hospital with hair pulled from her ponytail and her eyes glazed over. She'd hardly blinked and barely moved since he'd arrived.

He desperately didn't want to bombard her any more but he wanted answers. He needed answers.

John slipped himself back into doctor mode. His body posture softened and his voice cooed as he talked. He sat next to Molly, making sure that he didn't initiate physical contact as it would only serve as a trigger. "Molly?"

She clenched her jaw and her entire body shook. "What is it?" she asked. It was clear she was on the brink of crying. Her words sputtered in her throat.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

She closed her eyes. "I really don't want to talk about it. John, please don't."

He sighed. "I want to help him."

"I know…" she said.

"I need to know what set him off. I need to tell his doctors."

She nodded mournfully.

"Not the violent bits," he said. "Just what happened before."

Her lip quivered as she spoke. "He was so happy this morning. I shouldn't have had him do the autopsy. I thought we could do something we used to—I thought it would be good for him."

He didn't want to argue with her now. It was a judgement call and it was wrong. There was no changing it now.

"It's fine," John said. "What happened?"

She picked at her jacket sleeves as she spoke. "We got down there and he seemed uncomfortable. I didn't say anything—I didn't want to embarrass him. It was a woman on the table. A young woman, 22, and very badly injured in a home invasion. He got so pale when we began. But he didn't stop."

"Did you say anything?"

"I talked about the other autopsies and he kept saying he remembered and I just couldn't stop. Doing the exams with Sherlock was such fun. I wanted him to remember what brilliant times we used to have."

"And he didn't?"

She shook her head. "He seemed sad. I made him so sad."

He rubbed her back and she didn't pull away. "You didn't do it on purpose. There's no way to know what will bother him."

"So after that those detectives came down and they were very rude to both of us. The man didn't even say hello. He walked down and demanded files and information for a body I didn't even exam. And then I went to the computer to pull up what he wanted and the man walked up to Sherlock and started speaking to him."

"Could you hear them?" he asked.

She wiped away a tear. "John, please…"

He looked up at her with the most vulnerable expression he could muster at this point. "I need to know."

"It was about you," she said.

That was the last thing he expected. "Me?"

"Yes," she said. "Anderson was being so cruel."

"Cruel how?"

She tilted her head back to keep the tears from falling down her cheeks. "He just kept pushing him. He said that you were going to leave Sherlock alone and that you were just around for pity. He said that people only tolerated him because he was smart so now…"

Her voice drifted away.

"Jesus," John said. "Why would he say something like that?"

"I don't know," she said. "It seemed so senseless."

She dabbed her eyes with a tissue as her entire body seemed to be transported back to the morgue. Every muscle tensed. "You should have seen his face. I've never seen something so heartbreaking. He really believed Anderson, John. He really truly believed every word of it. He was so scared. I think he just didn't know what else to do."

No wonder he had acted so oddly just before. Anderson had planted the seed of doubt in his mind and it had overgrown like a virulent weed. His entire family had already written him off and now he was sure that his only friend in the world was only staying around out of some misplaced sympathy.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked.

"He's Sherlock," he said. "He's always okay."

They both knew what a lie that was now.

* * *

Anderson's wounds were not life-threatening so Sherlock was out on bail with the help of the Mycroft supplied emergency fund. John sat in the waiting area of the station as Sherlock gathered his belongings from the desk.

His shoulders slumped as he placed his phone and keys back in his pocket. He was hunched and clenched from head to toe and he moved with such caution. John didn't dare get near him until they could cut through the bullshit and get to the core of what was happening.

"You ready?" he asked as Sherlock turned from the desk.

"I can take a cab."

"I have one waiting outside."

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to take my own."

He was pushing away intentionally. He didn't want to be dependent on John any longer since there was no guarantee how long they would be together.

"You can if you want but this one's here. How about you pay for this one," he said.

"I don't…I don't have any…" He patted his pants pockets in a desperate attempt to materialize the word  _money_.

"Well then you just have to pay for the next one," he said.

Sherlock walked ahead of John in long confident steps in order to be the first at the taxi. "This one?" he asked.

"Yes," John said. "You want to go straight home?"

"Are you staying tonight?" he asked.

John looked at him, confused. "Of course. I do live there."

"I just thought…" he began.

The taxi pulled out and they were on their way. Sherlock gazed out the window as the city streaked by. "Thought what?" John asked.

"I would understand."

"Sherlock, I never planned on doing anything but staying in the flat. I know you're not a violent person."

"I'm not," he said with such trepidation in sounded like a question.

"You're not. You were provoked. It happens to the best of us."

"It doesn't happen to me," he said.

John couldn't argue with that. It didn't happen to Sherlock. He was the bastion of self control.

"I'm not going anywhere," John said as he sunk back in his seat. "I'll help you with all this."

"No need, John."

"Yes," he said, "there's a need and I will be around. Do you understand that?"

Sherlock tapped nervously on his leg. "If there's a trial, I understand if you want…"

He wasn't even going to let Sherlock finish the thought. "I don't give a rat's ass if you're being hanged from the rafters. I'll be there. You get that."

Sherlock nodded but his face betrayed him.

To him, John doth protest too much. The harder the sell the more he was convinced tht John was a venerable saint that had dropped everything to help him. "Is there anything you want to do? Maybe go to a movie?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You should go back to work."

Work. Shit. He had to call Sarah and tell her that he'd need off the rest of the day. "Not today. I'm taking off the rest of the day."

"Stop this," Sherlock said. "Stop speaking to me in that tone."

"Tone?"

Sherlock contorted his face into a sneer. "I'm not a child. You don't need to speak to me like one."

"A child?" he stammered. "I didn't mean anything by it. I'm tired. It's been a long day. Just bear with me a little."

"You have a job," Sherlock said, "and you should go back to it. I can take care of myself."

How long had he felt this way? John remembered that, when he nine years old, his father threaten to move out of the house. It devastated him to imagine his home without his father so he went above and beyond to make Papa see that his son wanted him around. He did his homework without complaint, completed his chores gleefully and even, with Harry's help, made his father breakfast…

Shit.

All the posturing and the play-acting with Molly. The insecurities he had been compensating for by pretending to be normal so John would stick around. The pain he must have felt at betraying every instinct in his mind to fake the life of a man that he thought John would like to live with.

It broke his heart.

He didn't want a normal flatmate.

He wanted Sherlock.

 


	23. Chapter 23

They walked up in silence. They sat in the seating area in silence. He turned on the television just to break up the daunting quiet that had taken hold of Sherlock. "Can I speak to you?" he asked.

Sherlock had slumped into his chair and stared mindlessly at the tellie.

"I spoke with Molly," he said.

John put a kettle on the stove and stayed a safe distance away. He could feel the embarrassment radiating off Sherlock.

"She told me what happened."

Sherlock shook his head. "She shouldn't have told you."

"I asked."

"You promised," he said. "You promised you wouldn't ask."

"I don't speak to your doctors. Molly isn't your doctor. I needed to know. You aren't violent—what am I supposed to do if I don't know what will set you off. I need to know what's going on."

Sherlock bowed his head. "There's nothing going on. John, just let me be."

He wanted to be patient. He wanted Sherlock to learn and grow but he was scared. The person in front of him was a stranger. An unpredictable stranger. "You need to talk to me about this. You know Anderson was wrong. He's wrong about it all."

"John, please. You don't need to placate me."

"Placate?" It came out much more condescending than he intended—like Sherlock was a child who'd used a big word.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Yes. Now if you'll excuse me."

He got up from the chair and began to sulk off to his room. The kettle whistled and chirped behind John as he followed behind. "Sherlock, get back here."

"What is it?"

"I'm not leaving," John said. "I never was planning on leaving. Whatever it was that Anderson told you, it was a load of shit. Believe me."

Sherlock rubbed his temples. "I'm going to sleep," he said.

John's chest ached with concern. "Are you listening to me?"

Sherlock nodded as he went to his room.

"And you understand?"

Sherlock gripped the frame of the door. "Stop asking me that."

"Asking you what?"

His head snapped around. "If I understand. Just because I don't wish to speak to you at this moment does not mean that I'm a bloody idiot. Do  _you_  understand?"

"Jesus," John muttered. "That's not what I meant. If would just talk to me when I speak to you then I wouldn't have to keep repeating myself. You're just bringing it on yourself."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised. "I see."

"Shit," he said under his breath as Sherlock went to his room.

Leave him alone. He should leave him alone. His paranoia would only be exaserbated if John kept bothering him with the same words of comfort that simply rang hollow.

He made his tea, sat on the chair and forced himself to remember a time when his entire nervous system didn't feel like it on the verge of unraveling at the slightest pressure. As the soothing warmth of the tea took hold of him he let his eyes close. He hadn't slept more than four hours in weeks. He had never been so exhausted.

* * *

The buzzing of his phone woke him up from a thudding sleep.

From Lestrade— _Anderson not pressing charges._

It was a miracle. An honest to goodness miracle.

_Are you sure?_

_Yes. Don't ask me why but Sherlock's off the hook._

He wanted to cry. Sherlock wasn't going to have to go through a trial that questioned his mental state and grilled him on his entire life after the accident.

"Sherlock!" he shouted.

There was no answer. Not surprising. It was nearly one in the morning and this version of his flatmate kept a regular sleeping schedule.

He knocked on the door. "Good news! Sherlock, open up!"

Nothing.

The door was unlocked but the lights were all on. It struck him as odd but Sherlock seemed tired—perhaps he didn't stay up long enough to turn them off.

"Sherlock?" he whispered as he walked in.

He was laying on top of his sheets with his arm laying limply along the side of the bed. His fingers grazed the floor and were sickly shade of red. His forehead was drenched in sweat and his shirt was plastered against his body.

"Oh my god," he said as he ran to Sherlock's side. He felt the side of his neck. His heartbeat was erratic and far too fast. "What did you do?"

Sherlock's hand shoke against his chest.

"C'mon," John said as he held down Sherlock's trembling arm down, "don't do this. Wake up. Please."

John saw the needle that had rolled nearly completely underneath the bed. He should have seen it coming. Goddamn it, he should have seen the signs.

"Damn it," he said as he pulled out his mobile to call for an ambulance.

Sherlock's body shoke in spurts as John held him tight. The last thing that Sherlock needed was to inadvertently hurt himself further. He was hot, feverish, and he was dangerously overheated. As John explained the situation to the dispatcher, he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt to let out some of the fire that burned inside. He grabbed Sherlock's scarf and dunked it in the glass of water on the bedside table and placed the damp end on his forehead.

There was a piece of paper on the table with the water. It was scrawled and messy but it was clearly for John to see.

_No longer burden. Live John. Be free_.

He couldn't stop the tears from flowing. How far down did the damage go. How many years of abandonment had Sherlock suffered that he couldn't comprehend that someone might actually want to stay.

"C'mon," he whispered to Sherlock as his seizing escalated. "Stay with me."

John softly rubbed his arm and hummed the song that his mother used to sing to him whenever he had one of hie chronic earaches. The tremors slowed to a dull roar and the sirens of the ambulances wailed in the distance.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and opened lazily. His eyes flitted back and forth as he struggled to make sense of what was happening.

"You're still in the flat," John said as he continued to calm him down.

He looked genuinely disappointed. "John…" he groaned.

"You have a temperature and your heartrate is very high. You need to stay still until they get you to hospital."

He nodded.

"Why? Why did you do this to yourself?"

Sherlock winced as he body shook against John's grip. "Let you go."

"I don't want to go," he said.

Sherlock took in a thin wheezing breath. His whole body rose as he tried to get in his breath. Another symptom of the overdose. He needed help and he needed it soon.

"I want to stay here. There is nowhere I'd rather be."

Sherlock looked up with pleading eyes. The pain he must have been feeling was excruciating but he barely let on.

"Nowhere," John said.

There was the slightest hint of a smile before Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and his body began to seize again. John could hear the radio chatter of the paramedics rushing up the stairs.

"Sherlock…stop this," he said as he attempted to stabilize Sherlock's head.

The paramedics came inside the flat and John beckoned them in the bedroom. They immediately ran to Sherlock's side and began to place oxygen over his face and holding him down as they prepared the gurney.

"Cocaine," John said to no one in particular. "He overdosed."

The paramedic turned around and acknowledged what he already knew. He stepped back and stood against the wall. It felt like a dream, a terrible dream. If he pulled through there would be answers. Someone would tell him what to do. With the last shred of coherence he could muster, John called Mycroft.

He wasn't going to give up. Someone had to save Sherlock.

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

The waiting room was nearly empty except for an elderly woman who stared mindlessly at the  _Good Housekeeping_  that she held in front of her. In the twenty minutes he'd been sitting, she hadn't turned a page.

Mycroft had just arrived a few moments before and was arguing with the intake nurse about where they'd taken his brother. He had never seen Mycroft raise his voice and John marveled at the display of bravado in front of him. It was no wonder the Sherlock secretly respected his brother. Things got done when Mycroft was around.

As the clock rolled around to three in the morning, he felt his exhaustion take hold of him.

Just a little rest.

Just close my eyes for a second.

"John!"

Myrcroft fell into the seat next to him.

"What?" he asked.

Mycroft unbuttoned his suit jacket as he maneuvered to get comfortable in the chair. "They're moving him. Private room."

"Oh good," John said.

"Bloody idiots here. They had him in a room with two others. How is he supposed to recover?"

The Holmes indignation of the world—he'd missed that. "I don't know."

"You can go home," Mycroft said. "You're tired. I've got this handled."

Going home sounded so good. There was nothing he'd rather do than fall into his bed and sleep the day away. But he had called Mycroft for a reason and it wasn't to swing his influence around the hospital.

"Can I ask you…"

"About what?" Mycroft said.

"About Sherlock. He's been saying some things. I just thought you could give me a little insight. It's hard when you don't have all the information."

His words agreed but his face said that he'd rather die than talk about his family life. He spoke like he was chewing on glass. "What do you want to know?"

"He wrote a note before he…came here and it was about no longer being a burdon. I've tried to speak to him that he won't tell me anything."

Mycroft sighed. "It's very complicated."

"Complicated?"

"Yes," he said. "Sherlock had a rough go of it. It wasn't just one event. I did my best but it was so difficult to shield him from it all."

Mycroft bowed his head and covered his eyes.

"I'm sure you did your best."

When Mycroft looked over his eyes were glassy and he hardly held it together. "A lot of people left Sherlock. Father left us when he was nine years old and told our mother in so many words it was because he couldn't deal with Sherlock any longer."

"That's terrible."

"Worse yet, he would come round to go to my events—I had academic tournaments and graduation and he would attend all of my activities with gusto. But he never came round for Sherlock—claimed he was busy with work much of the time. And I know that I wasn't supportive of him then. I took great pleasure that our brilliant father had chosen me."

John smiled. "You were young. You didn't know any better."

Mycroft sighed. "You know he's the first friend he's ever really had. I mean real friend."

"No," John muttered. "That can't be."

"Children can be cruel, John."

He almost didn't want to know but he needed to find out what happened. "What do you mean?"

"Shortly after Father left, our mother encouraged him to invite a few boys from his class to the house just to help him make friends. He didn't want to do it but she facilitated the whole event and brought over a few of the boys that she'd seen him speak to—the smart boys with sweet mothers."

John knew what must have happened next. He was filled with dread.

"I was in and out the entire night so I didn't see what exactly had prompted it all but when I peeked my head in his bedroom at about eight or so at night, Sherlock was on his bed all alone while the other boys were in the living room watching tellie. I didn't bother to ask him what had happened and made him go down to talk to them. I chided him for being rude and weird—I feel terrible about it now."

John could feel Mycroft's guilt weighing him down.

"He went down reluctantly and not twenty minutes later I heard laughing. I remember Mother smiling at the top of the stairs—we both assumed that Sherlock had turned a corner."

He sighed again.

"When Mother came down an hour later, Sherlock was gone."

"Gone?"

"They pretended for a bit that they were innocent and Sherlock had simply went to the washroom but Mother could be insistant."

"Where was he?"

"They'd locked him in the closet. Forty minutes he was in there while they laughed in the other room."

"Jesus…"

Mycroft blinked back the tears. "I let him out and he looked so devastated. He ran to his room and didn't come out for days. Those boys were the closest things he had to friends. Until you…"

* * *

They let him see Sherlock as dawn approached. Mycroft had fallen asleep in the waiting room and John didn't want to disturb him. He wanted time to talk to Sherlock on his own.

The private room was posh and bright. Already Sherlock was propped up by a mountain of pillows and flicking through the television program. As John walked through he gave him a dubious glance before turning back to the news.

"How're you feeling?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine."

"Anything good on tellie?"

"John, please, small talk does not suit you.'

He crept in further. "Alright then. Do you want to tell me why you tried to kill yourself."

Sherlock winced at the accusation. "I didn't."

"You wrote me a note."

"Jotting down my thoughts."

"I'm not stupid," John said.

"Then don't say stupid things."

John walked right up to Sherlock's bed. "Why?"

Sherlock looked up with a hopeless expression. "Doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. You tried to bloody kill yourself. Don't you think I might want to know why?"

He shook his head. "You don't care."

"I do care. Probably too much."

"John, please, don't do this again. I'm not your responsibility."

"I know that."

"Then you do not need to stay. I don't need you to watch me."

John held back the frustration in voice. "That's not why I'm still here."

"Then why?" Sherlock said as he flicked to an infomercial.

"Because I'm your friend. I care about you."

Sherlock scoffed.

"It's true."

He looked over with such pain in his eyes. "I don't have friends."

John smiled. "You do now."

  


	25. Chapter 25

"I need to see her."

John slowly peered up from the magazine. He'd been sitting in Sherlock's room for three hours and these were the first words that Sherlock had uttered since then.

At first he was offended that his gestures were so cruelly rebuffed. Sherlock still had a skeptically eye at the man in the corner but John wasn't going to leave. He would make his point clear. He was here for Sherlock even if he wasn't wanted.

"Need to see who?" John asked.

Sherlock maneuvered the IV's around his arm and straightened his back. "Molly. I need to speak to her."

John scoffed. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

Sherlock's face fell. "Why not?"

"Seriously?"

John's heart raced as Sherlock's face drew a blank. It was most certainly the after-effects of his overdose that clouded his memories but it only exacerbated their fragile relationship. He was tired of being the bearer of all news, especially the hard parts.

"I don't understand. Why can't I see her?"

There was a familiar insistency to his voice. The shreds of over-confidence and bravado were beginning to seep back in. Even so, John had to make a quick decision. Out of exhaustion, he immediately made the wrong one.

He was honest.

"Because you attacked her," he said bluntly.

Sherlock's eyes fell to a squint. "No…"

"Yesterday."

"John, this isn't amusing…"

John set the magazine on the chair and walked over to the bed. "I'm your friend and I'm going to be honest with you. Got it?"

Sherlock winced at the bluntness but nodded.

"You attacked Anderson and then injured Molly. You were under arrest for a few hours but were let off."

Sherlock looked down at his hands in disbelief. "Why can't I remember?"

John sighed. "The drugs inhibited your short-term memory. Best I can guess."

He was lying. Sherlock had remembered the attack when he was brought in. Either he was playing a game or his mind had begun the process of hiding away the pain. John's mind had done that long ago—long lost memories that were tucked back far in the drawer and never to be seen from again.

"Is she upset?"

John tried to smile but it rang hollow. "I don't know. She was in shock when I saw her last."

Sherlock shook his head. "Why?"

"I don't know. It isn't like you."

The heart monitor chirped in the silent room as Sherlock picked at the tape that held in his IV.

"I still want to see her," he said.

John balled his hands up into a fist. "Why?" he asked, exasperated.

He looked up with hope in his eyes. "Because I'm beginning to remember. I remember her."

* * *

Molly was hesitant at first when John first rang her. She was at her mom's house and still sounded quite shaken. But it was Molly and, for better or worse, she was just as loyal to Sherlock as John.

Somehow she was the key to his memories. Bits were coming back and it needed to be encouraged. Molly came to the hospital under an hour after he called dressed in clothes more suitable to a garden party than a medical visit. She had blush and bright blue eye shadow that matched the flowers on her dress.

The bruise on the side of her face had been covered in layers of foundation and concealer but the cover-up barely hid the damage that Sherlock had done.

"You look…" John began.

She self-consciously crossed her arms. "Mum had friends over. She wanted me to look nice for dinner. You don't think it's too much?"

John shook his head. "Absolutely not. You look wonderful."

She smiled but he could see that her hands were shaking.

"Molly…" he said.

She looked up at him and her eyes were wide with anxiety. "Yeah?"

"You don't need to go in. You don't have to."

"No," she said, "I should. You said that I should. It'll help him remember?"

"Yeah, but, if it's too hard."

She nodded. "I know."

* * *

John walked in first and led Molly in with a firm hand on her back. It was the utmost selfishness that she was here right now. No one, especially John, should ask someone else to do something so difficult. She had been through a trauma not 48 hours before and now she was face to face with her attacker.

He didn't leave her side. Deep down, he was just as scared of Sherlock as Molly but he couldn't show it. If he showed it, then he'd have to admit that there was more to Sherlock than he ever could have imagined.

Sherlock didn't say anything as Molly walked in the room. He looked at her with a serene calmness—as nonthreatening a pose as he could muster.

"You look well," Molly said quietly.

John waited for Sherlock to say something but yet there was silence.

Typical.

Molly wrung her hands together. "What was it that you wanted to say?"

Sherlock tilted his head just slightly and his eyes shifted to the side of her head. To the bruise.

"Molly…" he muttered.

Her eyes lit up. "Yeah?"

He gestured to his own head. "Did I?"

She lifted a hand to cover the bruise. "It's fine," she said.

Sherlock clenched his hands. "I did that to you?"

"You didn't mean to," she muttered.

John stepped in his closer to Molly, ready to take her out of the room.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Molly. You don't deserve this. Any of this."

Molly looked back towards John to decipher.

"I remember," he said, "how I treated you. It's not all there but bits of it are. When we were in the lab and I would keep you for hours. I demanded so much of you…"

"You needed the help," she said.

Sherlock shut his eyes. "I used you."

"Oh no…" she said.

"I did."

Molly dabbed a tear from her eye. "I wanted to stay."

"I didn't even ask," he said. "I just took. I took from everyone. That's why they all leave."

Sherlock lay his head in his hands.

"Sherlock," John began to say but Molly laid a hand on him to keep him back. She walked towards Sherlock's bed and sat on the edge near his feet.

"I wanted to stay, do you understand?" she said.

Sherlock didn't respond. Every part of his body was tensed to the point of snapping. There was no telling how many memories had flooded back.

"I could have left. You would have been fine."

She lay a hand on his ankle and squeezed. John had never seen her so at ease.

"I wanted to be near you," she said.

Sherlock's hands lowered just a bit. "What?"

"I just wanted to spend time with you. I…liked spending time with you."

John wanted to shake Sherlock as it felt like it took him a lifetime to connect the dots all the while poor Molly sat with her heart on her sleeve.

"Oh," he said.

She got to her feet and regained the anxiety in her entire body. Sherlock, even vulnerable and open, wasn't receptive to her feelings.

"Yeah," she said. "So…"

She turned towards John with pleading eyes. It was their cue to leave.

As they neared the door, Sherlock called out. "Molly, wait."

"What?" she asked. There were already tears in her eyes.

"I…liked spending time with you as well."

John cocked his head just to make sure he wasn't hearing things.

"Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "I could have gone to any lab."

She smiled. "I figured as much. I always wondered."

"I'm sorry…for…" he gestured towards his forehead.

"Thank you," she said.

John gestured towards the door. "Shall we go?"

She nodded. "See you around?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock said.

 


	26. Chapter 26

He was hurt. It pained John to see Sherlock sit with Molly, and discuss the bits and pieces that he recalled from their moments together. It felt silly to be upset about it-wasn't this what he had wanted the entire time? All these weeks he'd been praying for Sherlock to heal and begin to come back into his own skin, but why was it with Molly? Why couldn't it be with him?

There was still such unease between them. He saw Sherlock's gaze whenever he tried to encourage him to eat his lunch or take his medications. It wasn't like he wanted to be goading him to do basic self-care, but he was the only one who cared enough to make sure that he did do it. He was the only one that was there no matter what.

"I need to grab something from the flat."

Sherlock fiddled with the hem of his blanket.

John didn't bother to wait to see if he answered. It was hopeless-like attempting to hold a conversation with a brick wall. "Do you need anything?"

"No."

"You sure? Not anything?"

Sherlock looked up through squinted eyes. "No. I'm fine."

"Of course you are," John muttered as he left the room.

* * *

It was a particularly sunny day. If he had been so inclined, he'd go for a long walk and have lunch in the park. But that wasn't his life now. His life was shuttling between the flat, work and the hospital in a never-ending carousel of cold stares and awkwardness. As he left the building, he heard a shout in the distance.

"John!"

He wasn't expecting anyone so he kept walking. There were many John's in the world.

"John Watson!"

He flipped his head around to see the person he'd least expected to see.

"Anderson? What are you doing here?"

The two of them spent little to no time together except for the odd comment in the middle of a case. He knew next to nothing about the man and certainly not enough to have a conversation.

"I...was just wondering how he was."

John looked over with surprise. "Really?"

Anderson bowed his head. "I felt...responsible."

"For what?"

"For making him upset. It was out of line."

John moved in a bit closer. He'd never had a problem with Anderson but through Sherlock he'd developed an unwarranted animosity for a man whom he barely knew.

"He's...well...he's fine," John said. He wasn't fine but he was alive.

Anderson rubbed his aching shoulder. "Did he talk about it? Did he tell you anything?"

John shook his head. "Not that I expected it."

Anderson nodded.

"What was it?" John asked.

"What was what?"

"What did you say? I've just never seen him get aggressive. It would be good to know so I don't…"

Anderson looked off into the distance. "John, I really don't-"

"Was it about me?"

There was a pained look on Anderson's face. "I was angry. I shouldn't have-"

John opened his eyes wide and let his mind go blank. He was getting answers. "Was it about me? Tell me."

Anderson sighed. "Yes," he said as his voice cracked. "I'm not proud of it."

John didn't have to say another word. He let his stare speak for itself.

"I told him that you'd leave."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because he has no point," Anderson muttered.

John fought back the rage that built up. "No point?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

"What else?" John snipped.

Anderson started to step back but John grabbed him by the lapel and snapped him back to place. "John, please…"

"What else?"

"He'd be alone…" Anderson whispered.

"What?"

Anderson looked up with tears in his eyes. "That'd he be alone."

John shook his head in shock. "Why would you say that?"

"I don't know," Anderson said. "All those years of abuse and comments...it just came out. I'm sorry, John. I really am."

"Is that why you dropped the charges?" John asked.

Anderson nodded. "I deserved it. I did."

John let the anger simmer just long enough to see Anderson for who he really was, not the man that Sherlock despised. He just a regular man who spent hours of his life being sidelined and insulted by an effective volunteer who was far better at detective work than he'd ever be. "You didn't deserve it," John said with a sigh.

Anderson gulped back the pain. "I did. I'm sorry, John. For all of this."

"There's more to it than you realize," John said. "He's remembering all the wrong things. He's so confused. I just don't know what to do."

* * *

As the cab drove off and raced back towards the flat, John pulled out his phone. There was one person that he hadn't tried yet. There was one person that might make a difference. It wouldn't be easy but it was the last trick up his sleeve.

He dialed Mycroft.

"John, what is it? Is Sherlock all right?"

"Yes," John said. "I just need a favor."

"What do you need?"

"I need to talk to your father."


	27. Chapter 27

"Absolutely not."

John gripped the phone. "I'm not asking, Mycroft. Give me his number."

"John, you don't understand what you're asking."

"I do," he said. "It'll work."

Mycroft spoke softly into the receiver. "It won't. Don't contact him."

He didn't need another person telling him no. "If you don't tell me, I'll just find out another way."

Mycroft sighed. "This isn't hubris. This will hurt him."

"It won't," John said. "He needs to remember."

"I want no part of this."

"Mycroft…" John said.

"No. Don't do this."

"I will," John said, "whether you want to help me or not."

* * *

He sat and tried to process Mycroft. He hadn't heard Mycroft sound shaken like that before. But it was clear the Sherlock's relationship with his father was strained to the point of breakage. That wasn't a surprise. But he could tell this abandonment issue came from deep down and if John didn't make Sherlock realize where his fears really stemmed from then he'd never get better.

It took three minutes for Lestrade to provide him the phone number for Gregory Holmes. John fudged the reason—he spouted a few medical terms about blood and transfusions and Lestrade was more than willing to bend the rules to get him the information.

But now that he had the number it seemed like a fantastical plan. What was this man like? If he could rattle Sherlock, what would he do to John?

This was for the best.

This was for Sherlock.

He dialed.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Gregory had the same baritone sonorous voice but there was bite to his words. To say his own son's name was like he was chewing on shards of glass.

"Yes," John said. "He's ill. I thought you could be of some help."

"Ill. How is he ill?" There wasn't concern so much as annoyance in his tone.

"He suffered a head injury. He is having trouble with his memory. Seeing familiar faces has been helpful to his recovery. If you could just…"

"I haven't seen my son in years," Gregory said.

Years? John bit his lip. "Well, the memories from his boyhood appear to be clearer. Perhaps seeing you again will ignite more memories."

"Ignite…what are you talking about?"

John swallowed his anxiety. "I mean that it would help him remember."

"Do you know what you're talking about, boy?"

"Yes sir, I'm one of his doctors."

Gregory scoffed. "I see," he said with condescension.

"Mr. Holmes, I would like you to visit him. He's been speaking about you and it will assist in his recovery."

"He asked for me?"

John struggled to find a way to phrase his thoughts so he wouldn't be pounced on. Years of Sherlock had trained him to edit every word that came out of his mouth lest he be criticized by the genius across the room.

"He has been speaking about his childhood. Mycroft has visited many times but there are elements that Mycroft was not around for. Without his mother, you're the next best thing."

He hoped this Holmes appreciated bluntness as much as Sherlock did.

"Why do you care?"

"I'm his doctor."

"No you're not," Gregory said.

"Pardon?"

"You're calling from a personal line. You spoke of Mycroft like he's an old friend. Who are you?"

There's two of them.

"I'm his flatmate."

"Flatmate? He's in a flat?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

Gregory scoffed yet again. "Gave him money to purchase a home after his mother passed. No telling where that went. And he needed a flatmate on top of that? Is he even working?"

Good lord. "Yes," John said. "He was. Before his accident. Please, Mr. Holmes. Will you just come? It will help."

"Flatmate," he muttered.

"Will you?"

There was a long sigh on the other end of the phone. "I can come for a bit tomorrow in the morning. I have a meeting at nine and another at eleven. How is ten?"

"Ten would be fine."

"My car will be out front at 10 then. I expect someone to meet me. I won't wander around the hospital. Understand?"

"Yes," John said. "I'll be there."

"Oh good," he said with layers of condescension.

* * *

As they hung up, John felt fear in the pit of his stomach.

This could be a huge mistake.

What had he done?


	28. Chapter 28

John got to the hospital half an hour early. He wasn't about to risk being late for Gregory's arrival.

Right on the dot, a black Town Car glided around the corner and pulled up neatly in front of the hospital. John shook with anticipation and schoolboy nervousness. This man whom he spoken to for all of three minutes, scared him to his very core.

A chauffeur skipped around the hood of the car and opened the side door. A lanky man in a black suit slid out. As he straightened his back and regained his composure, he towered over John. There was a sharpness to each of his features as if he'd be carved and sanded down. He had dark brown hair that was slicked back against his head and a snarled lip that showed no hint that it'd ever borne a smile.

John walked up with slumped shoulders. "Mr. Holmes?"

Gregory turned around and looked down towards John with an unguarded unimpressed expression. "Oh hello."

"Are you…ready?"

Gregory pulled his suit jacket and buttoned it tight. It was impeccable tailored and he appeared like an etched god next to John. His every movement was proper and purposeful—John felt like an oaf with his every movement.

"Ready? Yes, I am. Remember, I must be at my meeting by eleven. This cannot go later than ten-thirty."

John nodded. "That should be fine."

"Should be?" Gregory retorted.

John slunk even further. "Will be. It will be fine."

* * *

John hadn't told Sherlock that his father was coming. He knew that if he had mentioned it then the whole plan would be over before it began. If there was any chance that his father could help with his memories than it would be need to be done now—whether Sherlock wanted to see him or not.

"He knows I'm coming?" Gregory asked.

John looked up at him with a sheepish expression. "Not exactly."

Gregory lowered his eyes. "Idiotic. I'm leaving."

They were only ten feet from Sherlock's room. John chased after Gregory who was already halfway to the elevator before he caught up to him. "Wait," he said, breathless from the run.

"Why was he not informed?"

"Not informed?" John said, confused with the formality of the question. "I didn't tell him because he's not receptive to anyone right now, especially me. Please, just try."

Gregory stood in the middle of the hallway with his hands jutted into his pants pockets. "One chance," he said.

"One…what do you mean?"

Gregory pointed towards Sherlock's room. "If he asks me to leave, I will. I am not to be browbeat by my son."

John was too exhausted to put up an argument with another Holmes. "Fine," he said.

Gregory blew past him and headed back towards the room. It was already 10:15. Even if Sherlock was willing to talk to his father, it wouldn't be for long. John raced after him. He wanted to be the first one in the room. It was going to be hard enough to swallow that his father was in the room—at least if John walked in first he could soften the blow.

But he was too late. Gregory reached for the door and walked right inside. John followed a few seconds later to absolute silence.

The two Holmes stared at each other with stunned silence. It wasn't until John entered the room that Sherlock finally blinked. "John?" he said with fear in his voice.

"I thought he could help," John said.

Sherlock sat up straighter in his bed. "Help? Help how?"

Gregory hadn't moved from his place against the door. He made no gestures to comfort or even appear to have concern for his son. He gazed at him like liked he'd look at a piece of art in the museum.

"What happened to you?" Gregory asked.

Sherlock's head snapped towards his father. "What?"

Gregory took a few steps forward with a look of disgust on his face. "You look terrible. What happened to you?"

"I'm sick," he said meekly.

Gregory shook his head. "No. What's wrong with you? Why are you in a  _flat_?" He spit the words out like they were acid in his mouth.

Sherlock looked away. "I had a position…"

"A position," Gregory said with a twisted smile. "Mycroft told me about your work with the police department. What is it that you call yourself?"

Sherlock gripped the edge of his blanket. "Con…con…con…" The words were trapped in his brain. John felt such fear as Sherlock contorted his face just to unhinge the words from his mind but they were lodged too tightly.

"Can't even say the name of your fabricated job. Pitiful," Gregory said.

John stepped forward. "Consulting detective. He's pivotal to the department."

"John…" Sherlock said. He didn't want rescuing.

"What is that? Do they even pay you?"

Sherlock nodded. "At times."

"Your mother would be weeping if she heard this. Her little genius in a flat doing volunteer work cleaning up corpses on the street."

John restrained himself from speaking but the look on Sherlock's face made him want to strangle Gregory. He'd never seen Sherlock look so lost. "You didn't help," Sherlock said.

"Help? What are you prattling on about?"

Sherlock picked at the lint on his blanket. "I remember when she was ill. You weren't there."

"Of course I wasn't there. We weren't married."

"I know," he said. "But I had to drop out."

"Of medical school? This again?"

Sherlock sighed. "I needed help," he said.

"You were fine."

Sherlock looked up with tears in his eyes but anger clouding every muscle on his face. "I wasn't fine," he said with a guttural cry.

Gregory stood, unaffected. "You chose drugs. Don't blame me."

"Why did you leave?" Sherlock asked.

There was a wave of silence that shook the room. John looked over at Gregory who seemed supremely bored with the line of questioning. "You know why. Your dear mother made it quite clear."

"Don't bring her into this," Sherlock said.

"Then don't ask stupid questions."

"Was it because of me?" Sherlock asked.

Gregory looked over at John and then back at Sherlock. "Because of…what are you talking about?"

Sherlock choked back his tears. "Was it because of me? Did you not want to be around anymore after Mycroft went to university?"

Gregory's face softened. "No. Is that what she told you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Told me? No. She never told me anything."

Gregory began to walk towards Sherlock with his arms outstretched but Sherlock recoiled. "Don't touch me," he muttered.

"You have to believe me, that wasn't the reason."

Sherlock's voice fell to nearly a whisper. "Then why did you hurt me and not Mycroft?"

John's stomach clenched. Tales of alcoholism and abuse were never far away from each other.

Gregory stepped back. "That was when I drank. You know that."

"It was only me."

"I know," Gregory said.

Sherlock sat up in his bed. "I want you to go."

John was ready to usher Gregory out, as per his wishes but he stayed put.

"You can't live just to spite me, you know," Gregory said.

"Spite you?"

"You were supposed to be a surgeon, Sherlock. You were brilliant and you wasted it all. Wasted it!" he shouted.

"You wanted that and then you left. You have no right."

"Such a waste," he muttered.

John moved towards Gregory to get him out of the room. "You better be going."

Gregory sidestepped John. "I left because your mother asked me to leave. She thought you'd be better off. Do you understand?"

"I don't believe you," Sherlock said.

"You never did," Gregory said as he left the room.


	29. Chapter 29

Gregory didn't get two feet out of the door before he came back in with his face red in anger.

"Where did it all go?" he shouted.

Sherlock looked over at John for help. John stood near to Gregory with a distant posture. He was just as lost and he felt tremendously unhelpful as the behemoth of a man came for Sherlock.

"Where did what go?" Sherlock asked.

"The money? Your mother's money."

"I don't know…" he started to say.

"Bollocks," Gregory said. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Mr. Holmes," John began but he was quickly steamrolled.

"I wanted to stay in the city," Sherlock said. "You know that."

Gregory's eyes widened. "You were supposed to purchase a home. You were supposed to be living like an adult. And now look at you."

"That's not fair," Sherlock said. "I was all alone. I had to decide…"

"And you blew it on drugs. You made your poor brother clean up after you," Gregory said.

Sherlock gazed towards the window but John could see the tears form in his eyes. "He offered."

"He had to offer. What else was he supposed to do?"

Sherlock sighed. "He has money. He had a home. He helped."

"He had a home because he wasn't an idiot and didn't spend his inheritance on cocaine. He went to business school. He has connections. Do you have connections?"

"Yes," he pleaded. "They respect me."

"The police? Those uneducated louts trolling the streets for prostitutes? Well isn't that lovely."

John clenched his jaw and forced himself not to interfere.

"I help people," Sherlock said.

"On your brother's dime," Gregory said.

Sherlock looked up with a pained expression. "He told you?"

"He didn't have to tell me. How are you to afford anything if you make no money. It doesn't look like your  _flatmate_  is anything more than another plaything you picked up. Do you even have a job, boy?"

John looked over in disgust. "I told you. I'm a doctor."

"Where exactly?" Gregory said with a laugh. "You have quite an open schedule for a physician."

"I am on leave," he said. "But I was an army surgeon."

"Army?" Gregory said with glee. "Wonderful. And now you make my son tea and traipse around with him as he finds pickpockets, is that right?"

"Excuse me?" John said. "What are you implying?"

Gregory moved back towards Sherlock. John felt his body shake in fury. No wonder Sherlock turned out the way he did. Five minutes with this man was enough to turn anyone insane.

"How bad is it?" Gregory asked as he neared closer and closer to Sherlock's bed.

"I'm fine," he said.

"If you were fine, the good doctor wouldn't have brought me over. You know I can just get your file. It'd be much easier for you just to tell me."

Sherlock turned away. "I'm fine."

Gregory went to the front of the bed and pulled out the chart that was deposited in the pocket in front. John tried to lunge and stop him but Gregory was too fast.

He flipped through the pages with varying interest. He stopped on the last page with the neurological report. "…Aphasia. Long-term memory loss. Reading difficulties. Is that right?"

"They're wrong."

He pulled out his phone and handed it to Sherlock who let it stay in his father's hands. "Read this," Gregory commanded.

"No."

"Read it."

John stepped forward. "You should go," he said.

Gregory snapped his head towards John. "Stay out of this."

Sherlock took the phone and stared at it for a few moments before he looked up at his father.

"Really?" his father said. "It's true."

It all happened in slow motion. Sherlock's mouth turned to a sneer as he threw his arm up and threw the phone onto the ground. It shattered and cracked against the hard floor. His father's face contorted and he slapped Sherlock in the face with a loud snap.

Without thinking, John ran towards the bed and pulled Gregory back. When Gregory began to fight back, John's instincts kicked in.

He punched Gregory square in the jaw and the man fell down in a heap. Sherlock, with terror in his eyes, looked down at his father and then back at John. He was paralyzed with fear.

"Get out!" John shouted as he grabbed the back of Gregory's jacket.

Gregory got to his feet and rubbed his face. "Don't ever call me again," he said to the occupants of the room.

"Gladly," John said.


	30. Chapter 30

He marched out into the hallway as Gregory stumbled towards the elevator.

"Hey!" John shouted.

Gregory looked back with a dazed expression. There was blood on his cheek and on his shirt collar from his surely broken nose. A nurse that passed by looked at him with concern and stopped him.

"No," he said in a clip, "I'm fine."

The kindly nurse smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Let me check that out."

John got to him just as the nurse turned her back to grab gauze from a nearby exam room. Gregory took the opportunity to make a break for it. He sped past the nurse and made a bee-line for the elevator.

Just as the pair of them were halfway down the hallway, a familiar voice rang out. "John?"

Shit.

Mycroft.

John turned, sheepishly at the towering man down the hall.

"Is that dad?" he asked.

Gregory had stopped running and was slumped against a chair a few feet away.

"Well, yes, but—"

Mycroft strode over and brushed past John towards his father. "Is he all right?"

John sighed. "He may have a broken nose."

"A broken—" Mycroft said in surprise as he knelt in front of his father. "How did this happen?"

John bowed his head. "Long story."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. "Let me get you a doctor," he said to his father.

"I'm fine," Gregory pleaded. "Just leave me be."

Mycroft grimaced at the sorry state of his father. "Stay here. The car's on its way."

Gregory nodded.

Mycroft stood and gestured towards the other end of the hall. "May I speak to you?"

John gulped. He knew this was trouble. "Of course."

They walked nearly all the way back to Sherlock's room in silence before Mycroft pushed John against the wall and stuck a finger in his chest. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?" John said. "Wrong with him!"

Mycroft sighed. "I told you not to ask him to come."

"I was out of ideas," John said. "I thought that maybe he'd spark something in Sherlock."

"And did he?"

John shook his head. "Maybe. I don't know. Nobody is telling me anything."

Mycroft clenched his jaw as he spoke. "For good reason. When I tell you to leave someone alone, it's not a lark. There's a purpose."

"He was only supposed to be here for a few minutes. He had a meeting…"

Mycroft laughed. "A meeting? Is that what he told you?"

John squirmed away from Mycroft's grip. "Yes," he said, confused.

"He doesn't have meetings."

"What are you talking about?"

Mycroft looked sorrowfully at the limp figure of his father off in the distance. From this far back Gregory and Sherlock looked nearly identical—the same proud posture of a broken man.

"I'm not talking about this here," Mycroft said.

John sighed. "Of course. But you're more than willing to push me up against a bloody wall."

They stood in silence.

"I'm taking him home," Mycroft said.

John tried to put the pieces together but there was too large a gap. If he didn't have a meeting…

"Does he not work?" John asked.

Mycroft began to walk away.

"Is that it?"

John followed. "Don't make me ask Sherlock."

Mycroft stopped and snapped his head back. "Enough," he said.

John stood resolute. "Tell me."

"No, he doesn't. Hasn't for some time."

"And he lives…"

Mycroft sighed. "With me. Is that enough?"

"Why doesn't he work?" John asked. Gregory couldn't be more than in his mid-fifties.

"John, please. That's enough."

John pleaded with his eyes. "He hit Sherlock for not being successful. Hit him. Do you understand?"

Mycroft's face fell. "He what?"

"That's why I punched him."

"He  _hit_  Sherlock?"

"Yes," John said.

Mycroft's face grew red with rage. "I need to go."

"What should I do?" John asked.

For the first time since he'd met him, Mycroft looked terrified. "I don't know. I really don't. This is…it's not good."

John sighed. "Has he done this before?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but a nurse and a doctor racing down the hallway and into Sherlock's room pushed them to the side.

"No," John whimpered as he followed behind them.


	31. Chapter 31

John ran into the room just as the doctor hovered over Sherlock's shaking body. He was agitated and fighting with the nurse but he was speaking. John took a relieved breath that it wasn't serious. But as he got closer the look on Sherlock's face was one he'd never seen before. It was the look of absolute hopelessness as he pulled his arm away from the nurses grasp.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted.

"Mr. Holmes," the nurse said quietly. "Your heartrate is escalating. I need you to calm down."

He glared at her as she tried to restrain him further.

"I am calmed down. Just let go of me."

She pushed him down even further onto the bed. Sherlock fought harder and the nurse looked helplessly at the doctor who nodded to confirm their pre-arranged agreement.

They were going to sedate him.

John ran towards them to stop it. This was his fault.

"Wait," he said.

The doctor looked over in confusion. "Pardon?"

John gestured towards Sherlock. "Give me a moment with him. Don't give him anything quite yet."

The doctor shook his head. "And you are?"

He threw back his shoulder and maintained a neutral expression. "His physician."

"And you're just here now?"

John looked at him with scene-chewing incredulity. "I've been here for hours. Have they not told you?"

The doctor smiled. "Well, doctor, as you know he needs to remain calm in order for his treatments to be successful."

"I'm aware."

"You have one minute. Nurse, prep the solution."

They took a step back and John swooped in. He sat beside Sherlock whose eyes darted back and forth with panic.

"Hey," John said softly.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

"Gone."

Sherlock took a shallow breath. "You sure?"

"Mycroft was speaking with him."

"Mycroft? Is he here?" The panic built up within his voice.

John looked behind him to see if Mycroft had followed him inside the room but he was nowhere to be seen. "No. Just me."

Sherlock nodded a number of times as he desperately gripped the edge of the blanket. "Don't bring him back."

"I won't."

His eyes opened wide. "Promise."

"I promise," John said.

"Okay…" Sherlock said as he breathing began to slow.

John patted his friend on the arm. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sherlock shook his head. "You shouldn't have brought him."

"I didn't know. I thought it would help."

Sherlock forced a slight smile. "I know."

"Did it? I mean, do you remember…"

"Do I remember anything  _else_  you mean?"

John nodded.

Sherlock looked longingly at the window. "I remembered him. Things I imagine that I'd spent quite some time forgetting."

John pursed his lips to keep from asking anymore damaging questions.

"Did Mycroft tell you?"

"Tell me what?" John asked.

Sherlock looked away. He'd said too much.

John gestured towards his own cheek. "Are you all right?"

"That?" he said. "Not a bother. I've been through worse."

They both sat in silence, neither of them bringing up that just moments ago Sherlock was so agitated that he should have been sedated.

"And are you feeling…" John began.

Sherlock forced a smile. "Better."

John sighed. "I shouldn't have done that without asking."

He nodded. "Yes, you shouldn't have."

"I just-" John began. "I just am at a loss."

Sherlock looked over with confusion. "A loss?"

"I was speaking to Anderson-"

Sherlock looked over with betrayal. "You what?"

"It wasn't like that. He was here to see you. He wanted to see how you were doing."

Sherlock scoffed. "Likely.."

"He did," John said. "I was just as surprised as you were."

The doctor appeared at the door frame with a look of anticipation. "How are we doing?" he asked.

"Better," John said. "Much better."

The doctor nodded and walked away. John tapped on the edge of the bed nervously.

"I'm surprised Lestrade let him come here," Sherlock said.

"Why?" John asked.

"I attacked him…" his words faded into the distance.

John realized that Sherlock had been out of the loop for days. "He dropped the charges. Did they not tell you that?"

Sherlock looked over in shock. "He did?"

"Oh god, yes, he dropped the charges. You're not under any investigation."

Sherlock's face fell. "Why would he do that? Did you talk to him?"

"Me? No."

"You did," Sherlock said. "What did you say to him?"

John looked Sherlock dead in the eye. "I didn't speak to him."

Sherlock looked lost. The small act of kindness seemed to rattle ineffectively in his brain. "I don't understand…"

* * *

The doctor had to run a test on Sherlock before he could be released so John took the opportunity to grab a bite to eat. It had been hours since he'd eaten and he was light-headed as he shoved coins in the vending machine. As a Hershey bar fell to the bottom, he heard footsteps behind him.

"John."

Mycroft. He was supremely tired of him.

"What is it?" John asked as he grudgingly turned around.

Mycroft looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were heavy and worn and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. "I'm sorry."

An apology from a Holmes was a rare and precious thing-it also didn't come without a steep price. "What for?"

Mycroft sighed. "Father. He was...he had gone to the pub this morning. I should have watched him. I didn't know."

"Watched him? That's not your job."

Mycroft took a step and bowed his head. "It is," he said.

"Mycroft…" John said. He let his tension fall and, for the time since he'd met Mycroft, he felt genuine compassion.

"Please don't," Mycroft said. "Is he all right?"

"Sherlock? He's fine," John said. "He was just agitated."

Mycroft winced at the insinuation. "Father won't be back, you can tell him that. It may provide comfort."

There was a lifetime of questions that John wanted to ask but he could see it all in the face of the Holmes brothers. It wasn't far from his own broken family. A mother who sought solace in her children to escape from an abusive husband. A father who sought alcohol to escape his own demons.

John could see their childhood play out. Mycroft was strong and sturdy, intelligent and with charm. He probably worked his way through primary school with high marks and a wide circle of friends. His father, brilliant in his own way, lauded his successful son and ignored and berated the child who could never quite match his brother's glories.

Frustration would build up amongst all four family members. Jealousy would inevitably arise between the brothers who competed against each other for their father's attention. The harder Sherlock would try to impress his father, the further he'd be pushed down. A scrawny genius with a chip on his shoulder would be ostracized from peers and that would only serve to garner his father's disgust. It wouldn't take long before the disgust turned physical and Mycroft would be powerless, or helpless, to stop it.

Therein lay the guilt. Therein lay the reason that Mycroft spent so much time watching his brother and protecting him from their father. But it was too late-the damage was done.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I should have listened to you."

Mycroft nodded mournfully. "I worry about him, John."

"I know," John said.

"What is he going to do?" There was such fear in his voice as he spoke. Mycroft, more than anyone, knew what a damaged Sherlock meant.

They stood there in silence as nurses and patients passed them by.

Neither of them had an answer.


	32. Chapter 32

For the first time in days, John was alone. Sherlock was more than occupied with the comings and goings of tests and procedures in order to send him home and John would only be in the way. After all that had happened, it seemed easier to just be absent altogether.

The flat felt hauntingly silent. The world outside seemed to quiet itself on John's behalf as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Mycroft had stuck around for a few minutes after they'd talked but there was a somberness about him as he went into Sherlock's room to say goodbye. John could see their entire childhood play out as Mycroft stepped inside with cautious optimism that his brother would be undamaged and willing to forgive the man that Mycroft was supposed to protect him from. They exchanged few words and parted ways in muted tension.

As he finally allowed his body to relax and adjust to the nothingness of the flat, the pain began to resurface. He'd been so busy and distracted that he'd nearly forgotten his own injuries.

It felt like it had happened a lifetime ago. A life before hospital stays and constant worry seemed like a distant memory. He struggled to remember his life before. A life that seemed so unattainable.

"Darling. I have tea."

John peered over at the door. Mrs. Hudson stood, glistening in the shreds of sunlight that came through the curtained windows.

"Oh," he said. "You didn't need to do that."

She stepped in the room with a sturdy wooden tray. "Of course. It's no trouble."

As John stood he felt the weight of his exhaustion pull him down. It was like weights that dragged his muscles to the ground. He felt light-headed as he began to walk towards Mrs. Hudson and he gripped the side of the chair to gain his bearings.

"John…" Mrs. Hudson said as she set down the tray and rushed over to his side.

He stared intently at the floor and waited for the wave of nausea to dissipate. "I'm fine…"

She shook her head and rubbed his back. "Sit down," she said.

"Really, I'm fine."

He wasn't fine, far from it. He'd had nothing but half a chocolate bar to eat all day and he hadn't slept well all week. Every muscle felt pulled and raw as he tried to find a standing position that calmed his mind.

"You need to rest," she said.

John gestured towards the door. "I have to go back," he said.

"For Sherlock?" she asked.

"He needs me to bring back his-" He'd forgotten what he was supposed to get. He gestured helplessly in the air in the hopes that the words would return but they'd flown away.

"He will be fine for a few hours," she said.

John felt delirious as he stared into her pitying eyes. "He's alone there," he said.

"Love, you're alone here. And you're ill."

He sighed. "I'm not ill. I'm fine. Really."

She placed a hand on his forehead. It felt like ice jutted into his temple. Instinctively he jumped back. "You're burning up. You need to rest."

"I can't. I have to go back. He needs me."

Her face contorted into a mournful grimace. "Have you seen a doctor since-"

"Since what?"

She didn't want to talk about it. They'd never talked about his getting shot. The poor woman had been through enough in her life and the thought of her boys being hurt and attacked sent her into a world that caused her agonizing emotional pain. It was easier to just keep her ignorant.

"John, please…"

He got to his feet and focused every bit of muscular energy on standing straight and poised. It was critical to not worry her anymore. She couldn't take it.

"Mrs. Hudson, it's really okay. Don't worry about me."

She shook her head. "I can't help it."

He kissed her on the cheek. "I know. Bless you."

* * *

When he got in the cab, he felt exhausted. Mrs. Hudson was right-he hadn't been taking care of himself and it was catching up with him. His stitches were coming out on their own because he hadn't bothered to get them removed and his pain medication was long emptied. His headache and muscle aches were so omnipresent he didn't notice that he was in pain on a near constant basis. The more he focused on it, the more he realized how weak he felt.

Sarah was in today. Before he went up to see Sherlock, he'd stop in to get his script renewed and get the stitches out. Just a little touch-up until the tempest died down.

Saturday morning was an odd time at the clinic. There were screaming children flocked around their frustrated fathers. John stepped over a fast-moving Hotwheels to get to the entrance of the clinic. The screaming and crying died down the moment the door shut. It was blissfully quiet.

"Busy morning?" he asked with a smirk to the attending nurse.

She wasn't amused. "You back?" she asked.

"Not today," he said. "Next week, probably."

"We need you," she said. "It's been busy."

She sounded frayed but he wasn't going to rush things. Especially not now.

"Soon," he said. "Very soon." She walked off in a huff. Maybe he'd wait a few more days just to spite her.

He maneuvered around meandering patients and bustling nurses towards Sarah's office in the back. The longer he walked, the more the smell began to get to him. The caustic aroma of rubbing alcohol and the omnipresent stench of sickness grated against the inside of his skull. It felt like a wall that he had to keep pushing through just to move forward.

By the time he got to her office, he was spent. He collapsed into one of the chairs and let his eyes flutter closed. It had been so long since he'd slept without waking up in fear. It had been so long since he'd rested.

So tired…

Just a few minutes.

* * *

"John!"

"Wake up!"

He felt hands push against his shoulders and shake him.

Slowly he opened his eyes to Sarah and an accompanying nurse staring at him. "Jesus," she said. "You scared me."

John began to move but his muscles ached and screamed at the intent. "What?" he mumbled.

"It's four, John. I let you sleep but you've been out for hours. I was worried when I couldn't wake you."

Four? He'd been in her office for almost hours.

Shit.

"You couldn't…"

She shook her head. "I brought in the nurse to take you to Emergency. With your head injury, I feared…"

"Haematoma," he said. Bleeding on the brain.

"Yes," she said. "How are you feeling?"

He wanted to be brave. The soldier in him sat straight up and thought the words I'm doing great. Nothing to worry about. But his body gave him away. He wasn't well.

"Not good," he said quietly.

She crouched to his level and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "What's wrong?"

He didn't want to talk about it. Weeks of pain were bottled up inside and there was nowhere for them to go. The guilt and obligation of Sherlock infected his soul and it spreading throughout his body. It was to the point he could hardly move.

"I can't do this anymore," he whimpered.

Sarah gestured to the nurse to leave and shut the door behind her. "Do what?"

"Any of it," he said. "All of it."

"Are the nightmares back?" she asked.

The nightmares had never left. They'd just faded into the background as an omnipresent feature in his life. "It's not just that."

"Let me get you some water."

He grabbed her arm. "Don't. Stay here," he said.

Her brow furrowed with concern. "What's going on?"

He didn't have the words. As hard as he tried to put his feelings into coherent thoughts, they came out garbled. He wanted to scream and cry but he couldn't muster the strength for either. "I don't know what to do. I can't...I can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" she asked.

"I'm so tired," he said. "Everything I do just makes it worse."

Her eyebrows raised in realization. "Sherlock? Is this about him?"

He flinched at the sound of his name. "He's broken."

"Broken? John, he's unbreakable. After nuclear war it'll just be him and the cockroaches."

He forced a sorrowful chuckle. "Not anymore."

"You're good for him, even if you don't think you are."

He sighed. "I got him slapped. He's back to drugs. He can't work. There's no point for him anymore. I can't bring him back."

Sarah wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and gave it a squeeze. "It's not your job to fix him."

He couldn't help but start to tear up. "It is," he said. "If I don't do it, who will?"

She smiled through her own tears. "I don't know," she said, "but you need to take care of yourself."

Sarah stood up and grabbed a thermometer from the drawer. "Open your mouth," she said.

John shook his hands in front of him like a petulant child. "No. I'm fine. I don't-"

"Open," she said insistently.

There was no use fighting. He dutifully allowed her to take his temperature.

"I'm writing your renewal script for your pain meds. I'm upping the dosage-you need to be moving and your chest must ache if you haven't been taking them. How are you even getting around?"

He shrugged. The pain was such a part of his life that he didn't even flinch at the agony that getting around caused.

She grabbed the thermometer. "John," she said with a stern voice.

"What?"

She placed the thermometer on the counter. "I don't want to admit you…"

"Admit me?"

"You can't go around with 38.5 fever. You're not watching yourself."

He felt his own forehead. Of all things, he hadn't expected that high of a fever. "It's that high?"

"Have you been watching your wounds for infection?"

He lied quickly. "Of course."

And she didn't buy it for a moment. "Open your shirt."

"Pardon?"

She had the stern look of a strict teacher. "You heard me."

He hadn't checked on the wounds on his back in days. In the few seconds it took him to unbutton his shirt, he knew exactly what she would find.

"John," she snapped again.

"My back?" he asked.

She sighed as she grabbed a pair of gloves from the counter. "Can you sit forward?" she asked.

He did as he was asked. Her fingers glided over where the bullet had exited. The pain seared through his muscles. He yelped as she touched the wound.

"It's infected," she said.

"I forgot…" he said through the waves of pain.

She snapped the gloves off her hands. "You can't forget. It's bad, John. I need to admit you. You need intravenous."

"No," he said. "I can just take the pills. I can't be admitted right now."

She paged the nurse from the intercom to come in. "I don't trust you," she said. "I'm not letting you get septic. It'll just be overnight."

He was supposed to pick up Sherlock in the morning to go home. "I can't tonight," he said.

"He'll be fine," she said.

He tried to argue but he was too tired to say another word.

"Beth will drive you to Emergency. I'll call ahead. They'll take you right away."

"Sarah...he'll be alone," he said.

One of the nurses he hadn't met before, Beth he presumed, came inside. She was young and strong and was able to get him on his feet on her own. "Let's go," she said with a reassuring smile.

"I'll go see him," Sarah said. "I'll explain it all."

John walked out of the clinic fearing the worst. What if she forgot? What if he sat in his room in the morning with no one to take him home?

What would he do?


End file.
